i  U!i 

•  •  ••  •  •  • 


LYRICS 
OF  \*>J\ 

,.    «,    THE  LIVING    tfB 
!»V>A-    CHURCH   :-.rJ!y' 

^Tji  |i  i! 


IW  "/'*/rt 


FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 

REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM  TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


[on      *SOo 


S^.uion 


LY  R  I  C  S 


OF 


THE    LIVING    CHURCH 


\s 


*  FEB    7   1933  ' 


L  I  i\l  v-^  o 


OF 


THE    LIVING    CHURCH 


SDrigwal  ^oemjs 


COMPILED   FROM   "THE   LIVING   CHURCH 


EDITED  BY 


C.    W.    LEFFINGWELL 


CHICAGO 

A.    C.    McCLURG    AND    COMPANY 

1891 


Copyright, 

By  A.  C.  McClurg  and  Co. 

a.  d.  1S91. 


preface* 


T^HE  editor  of  "The  Living  Church,"  during  the 
first  decade  of  its  publication,  was  several  times 
requested  to  preserve  in  book  form  the  best  of  the 
verses  which  had  appeared  in  its  columns ;  and  a 
literary  friend  in  New  York  having  submitted  for 
consideration  a  number  of  selections,  properly  classi- 
fied, the  enterprise  was  decided  upon. 

In  so  large  a  field  to  glean  from,  it  is  more  than 
probable  that  some  grain  has  been  overlooked.  There 
may  have  been  errors  of  judgment  in  making  the 
selections,  even  though  the  editor  has  tried  to  please 
a  great  variety  of  readers  rather  than  in  all  respects  to 
please  himself.  If  there  are  any  verses  which  seem  to 
some  unworthy  of  a  place,  perhaps  to  others  these 
verses  will  be  prized  as  the  best  in  the  book.  It  is 
hoped  that  all  will  here  find  something  to  edify  and 
nothing  to  offend. 

To  the  handsome  setting  which  the  publishers  pro- 
pose to  give  The  Lyrics,  the  illustrations  will  add  a 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

charm.  A  few  of  them  will  be  recognized  as  drawings 
from  the  old  masters ;  the  greater  part  are  original 
designs. 

The  number  of  writers  being  so  large,  and  the 
addresses  of  many  being  unknown,  it  has  not  been 
practicable  to  send  proof  for  correction.  Any  errors 
to  which  the  editor's  attention  is  called  will  be  cor- 
rected in  future  editions,  if  such  editions  shall  be 
demanded,  and  names  of  writers  not  here  given  will 
be  added,  if  desired. 

THE    EDITOR. 


Chicago,  a.d.  1891. 


Contents. 

PAGE 

THE    CHRISTIAN   YEAR 19 

The  Lord's  Day.  Quinquagesima. 

Advent.  Lent. 

Christmas.  The  Annunciation. 

Saint  Stephen's  Day.      Easter. 

The  Innocents.  The  Ascension. 

New  Year's.  Thanksgiving. 

The  Epiphany.  All  Saints'  Day. 

Septuagesima.  The  Holy  Eucharist. 

POEMS   OF   CONSOLATION 119 

POEMS    OF    PATIENCE 147 

LEGENDARY   AND   ALLEGORICAL   POEMS  ....  159 

POEMS   OF   PRAYER   AND   PRAISE 191 

POEMS   OF   MEDITATION 207 

POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD 229 

MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 239 


Drawn  by 


J.    H.    GRATACAP. 


Frontispiece  page 

The  Nativity 29 

"Looking  unto  Jesus" 43 

The  Innocents -  53 

The  Epiphany 58 

Penitence  (Murillo) 67 

The  Resurrection  (Fra  Angelico) 90 

Whitsuntide  Lilies 102 

All  Saints'  Day 106 

Patience 149 

St.  Cecilia  (Raphael) 198 

"  Far  in  the  West  " 199 

Under  Magdalene  Tower 220 

Montreux       223 

Childhood 230 

Spring 241 

Sunset  Thoughts 272 


Xll 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


CxaDpicccs, 

PAGE 

Preface vjj 

Contexts ix 

List  of  Illustrations xi 

The  Christian  Year k^ 

Advent 24 

Lent 66 

Easter S4 

Agnus  Dei no 

Consolation 119 

Patience 147 

Allegory 159 

Prayer  and  Praise 191 

Meditation 207 

Childhood 229 

Miscellaneous 239 

Psalm  XXIII 274 


U$t  of  authors. 


Allyne,  Maie    .     .     . 
Anketell,  Rev.  John 


Argent,  R.  L 

Ayres,  Rev.  Nelson    .     .     . 

B.,  C.  H 

Bailey,  Rev.  Melville  K.  . 

Baker,  Brooks  O 

Batterson,  D.D.,  Rev.  H.  G. 
Beauchamp,  M.  E.  (Filia*  Ec 

CLESLE)      

Bogert,  Cornelia      .     .     . 
bonney,  callie  l.      .     .     . 

Brewer,  Harriet  .... 
Browne,  Mrs.  J.  D.  H.     .     . 


Buchan,  Frances  M.      .     . 
Burgess,  D.D.,  Rt.  Rev.  Alex. 


The  Sister's  Vow     .     . 
A  Christmas  Evergreen 
Waiting    .     .     . 
Carmina  in  Node  . 
Dies  Irce    .... 

Thajiksgiving  Hymn 
"  We  -would  see  Jesus ' 
The  Blessed  Morn  . 
Alone    .     ...     .     . 

A  Gradual    .     .     . 

"Ask  and  it  Shall  be 

You "  .     .     .     . 

Saint  Veronica  . 
Faith  and  Works   . 
An  Easter  Hymn    . 

My  Portion  Forever 
Snrsum  Corda    . 
Two  Birthdays  .     . 

May 

An  Easter  Song 
Daisy's  Easter  Gift 
The  Old  and  the  New 
Pearls  .... 
Advent      .     .     . 
A  Little  Child     . 
Lenf s  Uses    .     . 
The  SouVs  Lesson 
My  Strength  and  I 
Bright  Easter  Skies 


Gi 


PAGE 

266 

45 

147 

219 

244 

IO4 
203 

88 
126 
198 

i43 

170 

263 

92 

227 


216 

89 
229 

56 
1S7 

25 
234 

76 
129 
156 

93 


22 


XIV 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS. 


Burr,  Rev.  Eli  Chrysostom 

C,  A.  L.     . 

C,  Grace 

Castlemar     ...... 

Chisholm,  William  B.   .     . 


Clarke,  E.  A.     ... 
Clarke,  Mary  Bayard 


Collins,  Leila  Day  .     . 

courtland,  brad 

Cowan,  Alice  Gray  .  .  .  . 
Cowper,  Rev.  Fred.  C.  .     . 

Crary,  Alice 

Cross,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  Rev.  Joseph 
Darden,  Fannie  A.  D.  .  .  . 
Delavan,  Erastus  C.     .     .     . 

Denton,  Clara  J 

Dickenson,    M.D.,    Rev.    Wm. 

Francis 

Eaton,  Isabel  G 

Eckel,  Edward  Henry       .     . 

Ellicott,  Annie 

England,  J.  J.  L 

Everhart,  D.D.,  Rev.  Geo.  M. 

F.,  N. 

Feuling,  Laura  H 

Finlay,  Rica  H 

French,  Harriet  W.      .     .     . 

G-,  CJ 

Garrett,  John  C 

Gaynor,  Elsie  White    .     . 


"//  is  the  Lord's  Passover 

Watch  ' 

An  Autumn  Voice  .     .     , 

Reverie 

The  Circle  of  the  Sanctuary 
Birth-Song  of  the  Messiah 
The  Feast  of  Candlemas 
The  Annunciation  . 
Stations  of  the  Cross 
The  Ascension    .     .     . 

Waiting 

Unfitiished     .... 

A  Legend  of  Saint  Angus 

tine 

A  Mansion  in  Heaven 
Domine,  Quo  Vadis ?  . 
"  On  Christmas  all  Holy 
Via  Dolorosa  .  .  . 
"As  While  as  Wool"  . 
The  Heralding  .  .  . 
Cleanse  us,  O  Lord  . 
A  Year  i?i  Paradise  . 
"Tell  me  a  Tale  "   . 

Beyond 

Patty  Grimm 


The  Token     .... 
Agnus  Dei     .... 
The  Holy  Innocents 
Saint  Stephen 
The  Organist 
Easter  Song  .... 
The  Lord  is  Risen  .     . 
Glory  be  to  God  on  High 
The  Unreal  and  the  Real 

A  Sonnet 

Indian  Summer      .     . 
"Vain  is  the  Help  of  Ma 
Brother  Philip     .     .     . 
"De  Imitatione  ChristV 
"  Good  Lord,  Deliver  Us 
Holy  Communion  Hymn 
My  Cabin  ..... 


PAGE 

90 

27 

1 88 

210 

20 

44 

59 

83 

79 

101 

1S1 

247 


172 

165 
36 
70 

239 
26 

77 

*3> 

225 

l33 
232 

265 

no 

52 

49 

209 

88 

84 

42 

259 

242 

120 

25S 

168 

167 

73 
in 

270 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS 


Gordon,  Frances  E. 
Griswold,  F.  Burge 


Griswold,  Irene  ... 
Heath,  Gertrude  E.  .  . 
Hitchcock,  Nancy  Meneely 


Huse,  H.  P 

Jewell,  Ph.D.,  Rev.  F.  S. 
Johnson,  Frances  A.  M. 

JUDD,  ABBIE    F 


Kellner,  Rev.  M.  Lindsay 
Kelsey,  Frederick  H.  .     . 

Kidder,  May 

Knowles,  Rev.  J.  H.    .     .     . 


Leffingwell,  D.D.,  Rev.  C.  W. 


Lindesey,  Maria  Batterham 

Little,  Rev.  Arthur  W.  .  . 
Livingston.  Mary  .  .  .  . 
Lockwood.  Katharine  Read 

LoiVRiE,  D.D.,  Rev.  R.  W.    .     . 

Macrae,  F 

Mair,  Thomas 


Thine  the  Power 
"Even  as  Thou  wilt" 
Dear  Old  Santa  Clans 
O  Vanished  Day  ! 
Visions  in  Oak  Hill  Cemetery 
Grasping  at  Shadows 

Tired 

Epiphany  .... 
Quinquagesima .     . 
1 1  'hitsnntide  Lilies 
Within  the  Veil       . 
The  Message  of  Loze 
The  Holy  Eucharist 

Lent 

Advent      .... 

Cradle  Hymn  of  the    Virgin 

All  Saints'  Day 

The  Higher  Wisdom 

"  Somebody  "... 

By  the  Sea      .     . 

Racine  Revisited     . 

A  Noble  Ride      .     . 

The  Innocents'1  Day 

New  Year's  Eve 

Lenten  Twilight 

The  Asce?ision     .     . 

"Thy  Will  be  Done" 

"  Peace  on  Earth  "  . 

Heroism  of  the  Sea  . 

Life 

Hail !  Holy  Son  of  God  . 
The  Sermon  of  the  Rose  . 
The  Legend  of  Saint  Doro 

thea 

The  Gentle  Stranger 

In  Church  Time      .     .     . 

"/  Stand  at   the   door  and 

knock"  . 
Septuagesima 
Lent  .  .  . 
Morning  .  . 
Evening    . 


'■  There  was  no  more  Sea  " 


PAGE 
I94 


21  r 

248 
207 

124 

53 

63 

i°3 

108 

255 

114 

68 

25 

41 

107 

236 

121 

242 

250 

257 

5i 

55 

61 

100 

136 

29 

243 
190 
40 
1S0 

163 

94 
22 


224 
62 
69 


XVI 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS. 


Mann,  Rev.  Cameron      .     .     . 

Marah   ...     

Mathew,  Katharine  A.     .     . 

May,  Rev.  John 

McCandless,  Rev.  J.  Heber    . 

McKeever,  H.  C 

McLaren,   D.D.,    D.C.L.,    Rt. 
Rev.  W.  E 


McLean,  Sidney  . 
Mead.  Mrs.  Jane  M. 
Meech,  Mrs.  J.  H.  . 


Melville,  David 

Mines,  Flavel  S 

Mooney,  Ella 

Moore,  Mrs.  J.  L 

Morris,  Catharine  Maria    . 
Mylrea,  Margaret  A.  .     .     . 

Newell,  Rev.  J.  R 

Norton,  D.D.,  Rev.  Frank  L. 


0. 

V 

H 

G 

p. 

p 

A 

P, 

p 

I. 

W 

p. 

W. 

Palmer,  M.  E 

Parker,  Jennie  Marsh  .  . 
Peck,  Rev.  John  Milton  . 
Percival,  Ph.D.,  Rev.  C.  S. 
Perry,  Rev.  Henry  G.  .  . 
Phelps,  Julia  E 


Preston,  Mary  C.  .     .     . 
Putnam,  Mrs.  S.  A.  Brock 
Robinson,  L.  L 


Hear  en       .     .     . 
The  Lord's  Day 
All  Saints''  Day 
Under  Magdalen    Tower 
The  Great  Change  . 
Eucharistic  Lives    . 
Still  Ring  the  Bells 

A  Spring-Day  Hymn 

The  Conversion  of  the  Cen 

turion  .... 
The  Shulamite  .  .  . 
Cheer  ?tj>,  Faint  Heart 
"  Shall  I  not  see  them  waiting 

stand  ? "  .     .     . 
Silent  mm  .... 
The  Merciful  Scribes 
Longing     .... 
A  Lenten  Hymn 
A  Lenten  Lyric  . 
To  my  Calendar 
Cliriste,  Audi      .     . 
"  Give  us  this  Day  our 

Bread"   .     .     . 
Montreux       .     . 
Gordon       .... 
Mary's  Birthday     . 
The  Sculptor       .     . 
"  He  Giveth  Snow  like 
The  CJianging  Leaf 
The  Song  of  Spring 
"He  Leadcth  Me  "    . 
The  Bread  of  Life  . 
Psalm  XXIII.    .     . 
The  Mistletoe      .     . 
One  Christmas  Eve 
Via  Solitaria       .     . 
Under  the  Trees     . 
A  Hymn    .... 
A  Christmas  Carmen 
The  Love -Token 
The  Messenger  of  Peace 
hnprisoned     .... 


Daily 


Wool 


PAGE 
249 
21 
105 
221 
I92 
117 
267 

240 

96 
iSg 
130 

'34 

i4S 
177 
195 
69 
66 
l9 
193 

237 
223 


12S 


150 
116 
274 
r75 
33 
142 
212 
261 

31 
1S4 
179 
262 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS. 


xvi  1 


Rogers,  O.  W. 


Russell,  Rev.  Edwin  B. 

S.,  A.  V.  R 

5.,  E 

S.,  L 

S.,  L.  D 


S..  L.  P.       ... 
Shaw,  Frances  A. 
Smith,  Juliet  C. 


Smith,  Marion  Couthouy 

Snowden,  Rev.  YV.  E. 
Stanfield,  Flora  L. 

Stilwell,  Emma  Sophie 
Taylor,  S.T.D.,  Rev.  F.  W 

Thomson,  Mary  Ann  .     . 


PACK 

Lines  on  the  Picture  of  a  Child 

2.V 

In  May 

214 

Early  Communion  . 

112 

The  Recluse   ..... 

217 

The  Last  Slumber  . 

144 

" He  Leadeth  Me"  .     .     . 

m 

A  Thought 

i4o 

The  Dove  that  Returned  nt 

) 

More 

I23 

No  Life  for  Naught     .     . 

!.5l 

Let  them  give  Thanks  .     . 

201 

Advent 

24 

Law  and  Love    .... 

i/S 

Lent 

"5 

A  Christmas  Legend   . 

x59 

Work  and  Prayer  .     .     . 

204 

Waiting 

152 

A  Thanksgiving 

197 

At  Rest 

i3S 

In  the  Printing  Office    .   . 

154 

Child  Wisdom     .... 

235 

From  a  Happy  Heart  . 

202 

A  Christmas  Carol 

3° 

Humility 

78 

The  Children      .... 

236 

Our    Lord    in     the    Blessea 

Sacrament  .... 

X13 

Saint  Stephen's  Day    .     . 

4S 

Easter  Thoughts     .     .     . 

86 

Eucharistic  Hymn  . 

us 

Discords 

1S2 

A  Song  for  Lent 

72 

The  Lesson  of  the  Flowers 

186 

Treasure 

17S 

Wasted 

20S 

The  World  is  Fair       .     . 

191 

A  Heart-Garden     .     .     . 

200 

The  Sister 

264 

The  Nativity       .... 

46 

Lines  to  a  Chalice    . 

261 

Faith,  Hofe,  and  Love 

64 

Annunciation  of  the  Blessec 

I 

Virgin  Mary   .     .     . 

81 

xvm 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS. 


Thorpe,  Rose  Hartwick  .     , 
Tottenham,    Edward     Hya 

CIN'TH , 

Truesdell,  Amelia    .     .     . 

W..  E.  M 

W.,  F.  R 

Ward.  Katherine  N.      .     . 
YYestcott,  Rev.  Frank  N. 
Whitney,  Rev.  Hobart  B. 
Wood,  Josephine  Smith    . 


PAGE 

''As  we  Look  upon  the  Dead  "     213 


Easter 

9i 

8; 

The  Shadow  of  the  Cross  . 
Grant  ns  Thy  Peace    .     . 
The  Old  Year     .     , 

75 
199 

57 
l37 

13S 

254 
272 

Cherith       .     .     . 

A  Mother's  Logic 

Sunset  Thoughts 

€fjc  €f)ri£tian  gear, 


TO  MY  CALENDAR. 
By  Margaret  A.  Mylrea. 

THE  calendar  hangs  in  my  quiet  room, 
'Neath  the  picture  on  the  wall, 
Where  the  morn's  pale  light,  and  the  evening  gloom, 
In  softened  shadows  fall. 

It  tells  the  days  of  the  Christian  life,  — 

Events,  as  they  come  and  go : 
The  hero's  birth,  and  the  martyr's  strife, 

The  seasons  as  they  flow. 

It  speaks  in  a  monotone  to  me, 

Of  the  fleeting,  fading  hours ; 
How  time's  dark  wheel  turns  ceaselessly, 

Amid  life's  brightest  flowers. 


I  turn  the  page  as  the  morning  song 

Floats  over  the  eastern  sea  ; 
I  join  in  the  glad  earth's  chanting  throng 

"  Most  Holy  !  One  in  Three  !  " 


20  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

And  when  the  day  is  worn  and  spent  — 
When  midnight  musings  come, 

I  close  the  leaf ;  I  have  pitched  my  tent 
One  day's  march  nearer  home. 

Old  friend !  thou  wilt  hang  on  my  silent  wall, 

Thy  earthly  records  keep, 
While  morning  and  evening  shadows  fall 

Upon  my  dreamless  sleep. 

May  I,  when  loosed  is  the  silver  cord, 

Without  one  single  plea 
But  Thy  shed  Blood,  say,  "  Here,  O  Lord, 

And  those  Thou  gavest  me  ! " 


THE    CIRCLE    OF   THE    SANCTUARY. 
By  W.  B.  Ciiisholm. 

ALL  times  are  thine,  Church  of  the  Living  God, 
And  Pillar  of  the  Truth  ! 
Be  these  thy  sacred  vestibules  still  trod. 

While  yet  in  ruddy  youth 
The  new  year  rings  with  its  dead  fellow's  dirge, 
E'en  to  its  own  last  verge, 

The  stars  and  wreaths  of  Christmas,  and  the  rose 
That  'gainst  the  sunburst  of  His  Rising  glows ; 
For  every  feast,  for  every  fast,  its  niche 
In  pious  hearts,  and  thus  she  doth  beseech 
Of  those  yet  leal  unto  her  holy  bond 
That  they  in  spirit  and  in  form  respond 
E'en  to  the  days  of  her  sepulchred  saints ; 
These  with  their  holy  plaints 
And  grateful  pagans  followed  her  bright  way  ; 
Be  we  as  true  in  this  her  brighter  day ! 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  21 

THE    LORD'S    DAY. 
By  Marah. 

A  PEACEFUL  stillness  broods  o'er  all  the  scene, 
A  holy  quietness  that  speaks  of  rest ; 
The  air  is  fresh,  the  heavens  look  down  serene, 
The  sun  moves  slowly  onward  toward  the  west. 

The  harvest  fields  of  gently  waving  grain, 
The  ripening  fruits  that  glisten  in  the  sun, 

Remind  us  of  the  merry  reapers'  strain, 
And  speak  of  labor  that  has  wrought  and  won. 

But  on  this  quiet  Sunday  afternoon, 

This  day  to  us  most  blest  of  all  the  seven. 

We  banish  cares  that  will  return  full  soon, 

And  raise  our  hearts  and  turn  our  thoughts  to  Heaven. 

It  is  a  season  for  reflective  thought, 

For  meditation  free  and  unconfined  ; 
The  very  air  with  peacefulness  seems  fraught, 

That  stills  the  nerves  and  soothes  the  troubled  mind. 

Now  stealing  o'er  us  comes  a  holy  calm : 
Our  burdens  and  our  cares  are  lost  in  love  ; 

And  from  our  lightened  hearts  we  raise  a  psalm 
Of  praise  and  gratitude  to  God  above. 

And,  musing  thus,  we  wonder  more  and  more 
Our  Father's  love  can  bear  with  us  so  long; 

That  He  who  all  our  sins  and  sorrows  bore 
Should  at  our  hands  receive  such  cruel  wrong. 

We  know  He  orders  all  things  for  our  good; 

And  yet,  how  oft  we  murmur  at  His  will, 
And  in  a  thankless  and  complaining  mood 

Receive  the  blessings  which  our  being  fill ! 


22  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

But  see  !  The  shadows  lengthen,  daylight  fades; 

In  thoughts  like  these,  the  day  has  passed  away. 
But,  as  we  watch  the  twilight's  deepening  shades, 

We  thank  "  Our  Father  "  for  this  blessed  day. 

And  from  our  hearts  a  fervent  prayer  ascends 
That,  in  the  coming  days  and  months  and  years, 

We  may  to  Him  whose  wisdom  shapes  our  ends 
Give  love  and  gratitude,  not  doubts  and  fears. 


IN    CHURCH    TIME. 

By  the  Rev.  R.  W.  Lowrie,  D.D. 

[Imitation  of  Herbert.] 

WHEN  rings  the  church  bell,  then,  be  on  thy  way. 
Not  at  thy  glass, 
As  many  are,  alas  ! 
It  were,  indeed,  a  sin 
To  lose  Confession  for  a  final  pin  ! 
Decently  dressed  —  not  gaudily,  I  pray : 
Go  not  in  state, 
Nor  linger  at  the  gate ; 
But,  eager  for  the  blessings  kept  in  store, 
Pass  porchway  through,  and  seek  the  church's  door ; 
And  when  thereat, 
Lift  heart  as  well  as  hat; 
And,  kneeling,  do  thou  kneel  and  use  each  knee, 
On  stool  or  floor,  in  all  humility. 

Be  mindful,  ever,  't  is  the  house  of  prayer, 
And,  prayer,  a  key,  — 
Though  passing  strange  it  be,  — 
That  turned  in  ward  aright, 
Discovers  wealth,  exceeding  India's  quite ; 
Not  two  or  three  resort  but  God  is  there ; 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  23 

Then  mindful  be 

Of  His  Divinity, 
And,  in  such  presence,  of  thyself  be  ware, 
And  have  all  reverence  and  a  loving  fear. 

Take  all  thy  part, 

With  lips  as  well  as  heart ; 
And  posture  keep ;  thy  body  's  surely  more 
Than  beast  dismounted  at  the  church's  door ! 

To  sermon  give  attendance  ;  note  the  text ; 

With  ready  mind, 

Not  critical  inclined ; 
The  bee  did  get  no  sweet. 
Were  she  not  diligent  with  wings  and  feet : 
Be  not,  in  church,  with  worldly  cares  perplexed; 

Thy  friend  forget, 

Though  he  be  next  thee  set ; 
Restrain  thine  eyes  that  they  not  wander  round, 
And,  cheerful,  give  the  alms  in  duty  bound ; 

One  thing  the  more  : 

The  ritual  service  o'er, 
For  prayer,  in  silence,  heart  and  knee  each  bend, 
That  worship,  so  begun,  so  may  it  end. 


ADVENT. 


By  L.  S. 


••  TTE  comes  !  "  Clear,  through  the  stillness  of  the  air. 
J^J-     Rings   the  glad   warning.    "  Lo.   your  King  dot 
come  ! 
Make  straight  His  path  to  every  heart  and  home, 
Your  thoughts  make  pure,  for  His  approach  prepare. 

;>  Deck  His  bless'd  house,  with  fragrant  wreaths  of  pine, 
With  spruce  and  hemlock,  and  bright  holly  spray. 
Your  loving  offerings  on  His  altar  lay  ! 
Hail  Him  the  Prince  of  Roval  David's  line !  " 


Like  warrior,  listening  for  commanding  word. 
Like  virgin,  who  has  watched,  through  the  long  night. 
Guarding  with  care  her  taper's  feeble  light, 
To  open  at  the  coming  of  her  Lord, 

The  Church  now  rises  at  the  welcome  sound. 
••  He  comes !  He  comes  !  Oh.  joy  !  that  I  may  meet 
My  Infant  King,  and  worship  at  His  feet. 
Rejoice  with  me  !     The  Master  I  have  found  !  " 

With  hand  upon  the  latchet  of  the  door, 
With  ear  attent  to  hear  His  hastening  feet, 
She  waits  and  watches,  for  her  joy  complete  ; 
"  Until  He  come,"  repeating  o'er  and  o'er. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  25 

ADVENT. 
By  Harriet  Brewer. 

THE  whole  world  thrills  expectant, 
It  waits  a  Presence  sweet ; 
The  earth  prepares  her  offering 
To  cast  before  His  feet. 

To  greet  the  coming  Christ-child 

The  oaks  glow,  far  and  wide ; 
The  heart-blood  of  the  maples 

Rises  in  crimson  tide. 


The  birches  bear  gold  for  Him, 
It  gleams  'gainst  pine  trees  dense  ; 

The  air  of  Indian  summer 
Is  faint  with  frankincense. 


A  quiet  fills  the  forest, 

The  pines  in  whispers  sing 

In  stillness  loyal  nature 
Waits  her  returning  King. 


ADVENT. 
By  Abbie  F.  Judd. 

WHY  tarriest  thou  my  Lord  ? 
The  shadows  deepen  early, 
And  the  chill  snowflakes  pearly 
Come  sadly  fluttering  earthward  through  the  air; 
The  year  grows  old  and  weakens, 
We  see  the  distant  beacons 

Of  the  brave  and  young  new  year  that  shineth  fair. 
Why  tarriest  thou,  O  Lord  ? 


26  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING  CHURCH. 

Tarry  no  longer,  Lord  ! 
Our  vision  waxeth  clearer 
As  Advent  draweth  nearer  ; 
And  we  wait  Thy  promised  coming  day  by  day 
Help  us  to  rightly  meet  Thee 
With  loving  faith  to  greet  Thee, 
Lift  up  all  bruised  hearts  along  Thy  way  ! 

Tarry  no  longer.  Lord  ! 

Thou  tarriest  not,  O  Lord  ! 
But  comest  with  the  dawning 
Of  the  clear  Christmas  morning, 
And  in  a  manger  makest  Thy  natal  bed ; 
Leaving  the  fair  high  places 
To  gladden  earthly  faces, 
Thou  bendest  mightily  Thy  kingly  Head, 

And  tarriest  not,  O  Lord  ! 


THE  HERALDING. 
By  the  Rev.  Fred.  C.  Cowper. 

YE  little  stars  that  shine  above, 
Ye  lamps  illumining  the  night, 
Ye  sparkling  splendors  of  God's  love 
Dotting  the  spaces  infinite  — 
Whose  path  is  in  your  keeping 
While  weary  worlds  are  sleeping. 

Do  angels  pass  with  fluttering  wing 

Adown  your  avenues  of  gold, 
To  bear  a  joyful  heralding 

To  aching  hearts  of  baser  mould, 
Who  in  the  darkness  dwelling 
Await  the  welcome  telling? 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  27 

Yes  !  to  and  fro  they  pass  along 

Than  the  electric  shafts  more  fleet, 
More  beautiful  than  minstrels'  song 
Upon  the  mountains  are  their  feet ; 
Good  tidings  they  are  bringing 
More  sweet  than  sweetest  singing. 

Theirs  to  proclaim  Redemption's  Day 

To  sinners  and  to  mortal  men, 
The  day  of  Christ's  imperial  sway 

When  peace  and  love  shall  dwell  again, 
Where  now  are  hate  and  warring 
And  sin's  unholy  jarring. 

Then,  O  ye  blessed,  golden  lights 

That  mark  the  highways  of  the  King, 
Shine  bright  upon  those  angel  flights 
That  down  to  earth  the  Gospel  bring, 
A  Saviour's  birth  proclaiming, 
The  Serpent's  kingdom  maiming, 
The  reign  of  Truth  restoring, 
All  nations  Christ  adoring. 


WATCH ! 
By  A.  L.  C. 

YE  know  not  when  I  shall  come; 
It  may  be  in  morning  light 
W7hen  the  bright  sun  creeps  in  your  chamber  door 

Dispelling  the  shadows  of  night. 
Jt  may  be  in  early  morning, 

E'er  the  shadows  have  left  the  hills, 
While  yet  the  mist  is  rising 

From  the  pools  and  little  rills. 
I  bid  ye  leave  the  door  open, 

So  the  Spirit  may  come  and  go, 
And  tell  me  prepared  you  're  waiting 

For  the  hour  that  ye  do  not  know. 


LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Ye  know  not  when  I  shall  come  : 

It  may  be  in  noon-day  heat, 
When  home  from  the  work  of  the  harvest  field 

You  are  turning  with  weary  feet. 
It  may  be  as  you  sit  talking. 

About  the  long  days  and  your  care. 
That  the  first  sweet  notes  of  the  Angels 

May  be  borne  to  you.  through  the  air. 
So  I  bid  ye  watch  for  my  coming ; 

If  the  door  is  shut  and  fast, 
I  no  longer  can  plead  to  enter ; 

I  must  turn  from  you  at  last. 

Ye  know  not  when  I  shall  come  ; 

It  may  be  when  evening  gray. 
Is  making  long,  black  shadows, 

From  the  poplars  over  the  wav. 
It  may  be  when  lamps  are  burning. 

As  your  little  ones  cluster  round. 
That  faint  in  the  far  off  heavens 

My  coming  to  you  may  sound. 
So,  watch  !  let  the  house  be  in  order. 

Keep  a  guard  about  the  door. 
That  I  —  thy  Christ  —  may  enter 

And  abide  forevermore. 

Yea,  Lord !  I  '11  await  Thy  coming, 

Be  it  morning,  noon,  or  night ; 
I  will  list  with  the  heart  of  a  watcher 

Whose  master  may  come  in  sight. 
And  the  door  will  be  always  open 

For  fear  that  I,  in  my  sleep, 
May  wake  too  late  to  unlatch  it 

When  I  hear  Thy  coming  feet. 
So  I  "11  wait  for  the  time  I  know  not 

When  my  waiting  shall  be  done  : 
For  1  only  know  He  bids  me  watch, 

And  savs,  "  I  will  surelv  come." 


PEACE    OX    EARTH." 


By  Maria  Batterham  Lindesey. 


A 


CROSS  the  ages  that  have  rolled 


Their  tide  on  tide  of  dross  and  gold, 
A  message  com§s  this  Christmas-tide, 
A  message  for  the  world  so  wide  ; 
"  Peace  on  Earth. " 


Peace  to  the  breast  that  conflict  fills 
A  wondrous  peace  that  soothes  and  stills, 
And  all  Life's  beauty  aye  fulfils  ; 
"  Peace  on  Earth." 

Peace  to  the  heart  that  mourns  its  dead. 
Shrinking  the  onward  way  to  tread, 
And  scarcely  daring  to  be  led  ; 
"  Peace  on  Earth." 


Peace  to  the  soul  that  cannot  soar, 
Groping  upon  earth's  darkened  shore, 
Peace  and  good  will  for  evermore  ; 
"  Peace  on  Earth." 


30  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 
By  Marion  Couthouy  Smith. 

TWELVE  o'clock  on  Christmas  Eve  ! 
Early  Christmas  bells  are  ringing, 
Christians  all,  no  longer  grieve  — 

Let  your  sighs  be  changed  to  singing  ! 
Earth  is  dreaming,  fair  in  seeming, 

Bathed  in  moonlight,  wrapped  in  snow  ; 
Soft  stars  glisten  while  we  listen 
To  that  song  of  long  ago  ! 

Long  ago  the  heavens  were  thrilled 

With  unearthly  song  and  splendor, 
While  in  helpless  slumber  stilled, 

Lay  the  Christ-child,  pure  and  tender; 
Mary  keeping,  o'er  His  sleeping, 

Steadfast  watch  that  mothers  know, 
Loving,  wondering,  mutely  pondering, 

In  the  dark  night,  long  ago. 

Earth  lay  palled  in  silent  gloom, 

Heeding  not  the  heavenly  numbers  ; 
He  Who  broke  her  ancient  doom 

Roused  her  not  from  death-cold  slumbers  ! 
Two  saints  only,  watching  lonely, 

Three  old  sages,  journeying  slow, 
Shepherds  meeting  gave  their  greeting. 

At  the  King's  Birth,  long  ago. 

Yet  all  heaven  was  moved  to  praise 

Him  Who  left  her  courts  to  save  us ; 
And  the  whole  world  now  shall  raise 

Joy-songs  for  the  Life  He  gave  us ! 
Starry  regions,  angel  legions, 

Realms  of  deepest  dark  below  — 
All  were  shaken,  and  o'ertaken 

By  His  glory,  long  ago. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  31 

Six  o'clock  on  Christmas  morn  ! 

Hark  !  the  happy  chimes  are  ringing! 
Christians  all,  the  Prince  is  born  ! 

Come,  your  gifts  of  homage  bringing. 
Earth  is  waking,  dawn  scarce  breaking. 

Through  the  dark  His  altars  glow ; 
Here  we  meet  in  joyful  greeting 

Him  who  came  so  long  ago ! 


A    CHRISTMAS     CARMEN. 
By  Mrs.  S.  A.  Brock  Putnam. 

EVENING  had  trailed  its  purple  shades 
Across  Judea's  plain, 
And  silvery  stars  looked  down  from  heaven 

And  glassed  them  in  the  main  ; 
When  lo !  from  out  the  dusky  east, 

Gleamed  forth  a  meteor  bright, 
Which  shone  as  shines  no  other  star 
That  gems  the  brow  of  night. 

Low  hung  it  seemed,  like  friendly  lamp, 

Betwixt  the  sky  and  earth, 
Without  a  sister  of  its  kind, 

A  strange  mysterious  birth 
Of  soft,  benignant  radiance, 

And  lustre  pure  and  clear  ; 
No  fiery  orb  of  menace  dire 

That  shakes  the  soul  with  fear. 

That  star,  in  far  off  foreign  land, 
Three  wise  men,  watching,  saw,  — 

Three  Magi,  in  Chaldea  famed 
In  astrologic  law  ; 


32  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

And  straightway  girding  up  their  loins, 

With  pleasure  and  amaze, 
They,  treasure-laden,  followed  swift 

The  sure  and  steady  blaze. 

O'er  hill  and  vale,  through  field  and  wood, 

It  safely  guided  them, 
Until  it  stood  with  broadening  beams 

O'er  little  Bethlehem, 
Above  a  stable,  small  and  mean. 

Which  entering  they  found 
A  mother  with  a  smiling  Babe  — 

The  wondering  beasts  around. 

A  manger  was  the  cradle  rude, 

And  straw  the  Infant's  bed ; 
Yet  shining  glory  filled  the  place 

And  crowned  the  Infant's  head. 
Then,  kneeling  low.  with  reverent  awe. 

They  gave  Him  homage  meet 
And  laid  their  gold  and  frankincense 

And  myrrh  before  His  feet. 

For  well  they  knew  this  gracious  Child 

Had  come  on  earth  to  reign  — 
A  King,  a  Priest,  a  mortal  man, 

With  all  man's  care  and  pain  — 
The  promised  Shiloh  of  His  race ; 

Messias  !  as  foretold 
In  sacrifice  and  prophecy. 

Since  Israel's  days  of  old. 

They  left  the  Babe.     No  more  we  know 

Of  them,  the  favored  three, 
Who.  guided  by  His  natal  star, 

The  Saviour  came  to  see. 
But  far  beyond  the  nether  realms 

That  stud  the  arching  sky, 
Glad  angels  and  archangels  sang 

••  Glory  to  God  on  high  !  " 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  $$ 

And  still  throughout  the  courts  of  heaven, 

That  joyous  paean  rings  : 
"  Glory  to  God,  and  peace  on  earth  !  " 

Each  grateful  seraph  sings. 
"  Glory  to  God  !  "  our  hearts  respond  : 

And  all  our  souls,  aflame 
With  gratitude,  and  love,  and  praise, 

Would  sing  Immanuers  name  ! 


ONE    CHRISTMAS    EVE. 
By  the  Rev.  Henry  G.  Perry. 

THANKSGIVING  had  hardly  come  and  gone, 
When  the  children  kept  counting,  one  by  one 
The  days  until  Christmas.     The  night  before, 
A  woe-begone  woman  was  walking  the  floor, 
And  spoke  to  herself  in  a  nervous  tone  : 
" 'T  was  little  we  had  for  Thanksgiving,  alas  ! 
And  now  it  is  come  to  a  sorry  pass  : 
There  is  n't  much  more  than  a  crust  and  a  bone 
In  the  cupboard  to-day  —  God  help  the  poor  ! 
And  ;/n\  this  Christmas,  with  children  four. 
There  's  Ned,  and  Jim,  and  Prue,  and  Tim, 
But  I  have  n't  a  penny  for  one  of  them  ; 
Not  even  a  capon,  to  make  believe 
We  Ve  a  turkey  small !     So  it  goes,  and  I  grieve 
And  fret,  and  drudge  for  our  daily  bread, 
Till  my  heart  seems  sick  and  sore  and  dead." 

The  children,  meanwhile,  where  were  they  all  ? 
Ned,  and  slim  Jim,  and  Prue,  and  Tim  small 
Had  been  out  to  gather  some  sticks  that  daw 
And  coming  back  in  their  wonted  way, 
Crouched  'neath  the  window  broken  and  old  ; 
There,  in  the  gloaming,  ill-clad  and  cold, 
3 


34  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

They  o'erhear  the  plaint  of  their  mother  sad, 
And  said  to  each  other,  "It  is  too  bad,"' 
As,  hands  all  hold  of  the  string  to  the  sled, 
They  passed  around  silently  into  the  shed. 

"  I  say,"  said  Ned,  "  it  is  too  bad  !  "     Said  Prue, 
"  I  say  so  too."     Said  Jim,  *  But  what  '11  we  do  ? '' 
"  Let  us  ask  for  our  daily  bread,"  said  Tim  small ; 
"  There  's  none  in  the  house,  but  our  Father  feeds  all, 
So  now  we  11  ask,  since  our  dear  father 's  dead  ; 
When  he  was  alive  we  never  lacked  bread. 
How  well  I  remember,  before  he  died, 
Reading  the  good  Book  one  day  by  his  side, 
Where  it  told  of  the  widow's  and  orphan's  God  : 
'  Don't  forget  that,'  said  he,  'when  I  'm  under  the  sod.' 
And,  I  'm  not  going  to  !     Let  us  ask  of  Him, 
Just  as  we  used  to  ask  father"  said  Tim. 
So  down  in  a  corner  they  knelt  in  the  shed, 
As  Hope's  hearty  utterance  heavenward  sped. 

Now  Gruff,  the  green-grocer,  was  striding  along 

With  Bovus  the  butcher,  when  outspoken,  strong 

From  the  shed  came  the  words  of  the  children's  prayer ; 

The  two  men  stopped  short  at  each  other  to  stare. 

"  Well,  well !  "  muttered  Bovus.   "  I  vow  !  "  added  Gruff. 

"  No  noise  —  come  away  ;  such  a  basket  of  stuff 

As  we  '11  make  up  and  leave  'em  to-night 

On  the  quiet !     That 's  a  very  uncommon  bright 

Youngster,  that  Timmy  !     Oh,  did  n't  he  pray 

Though  ?  a  reg'lar  out-and-out  Christmas-day 

Trust-the-Lord  sort  of  prayer  !    We  don't  often  hear 

It  clean-cut  like  that,  eh,  Bovus  ?     It 's  clear 

To  my  mind  that  they  are  a  good  little  lot, 

And  the  youngest 's  a  fam'ly  forget-me-not.*' 

And  off  through  the  dark  the  two  men  stole, 
While  Tim  to  his  mother  ran  in,  and  told 
Of  a  curious  noise  they  heard  in  the  shed 
Just  after  the  prayer  for  their  daily  bread. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  35 

But  she  answered  him  never  a  word 

When  he  asked  her,  didn't  she  think  it  the  Lord  ?  — 

Only  sung  an  odd  bit  of  a  sad  old  tune, 

And  said,  "  'T  will  be  children's  bed-time  soon. 

Put  a  few  fresh  branches,  dear,  on  the  fire, 

And  I  '11  tell  you  a  story  before  we  retire. 

"There  once  was  a  King  —  "     "  What  kind?"  said  Tim 

small. 
"  King  of  Kings,  they  called  Him,  because  for  all 
He  came,  as  our  Prophet,  Priest,  and  King, 
Peace  on  earth  and  good-will,  Christ  was  born  to  bring. 
And  so  sang  angels  at  time  of  his  birth, 
'  Good-will  to  men,  and  Peace  on  earth  ! ' 
After  all,  children  dear,  Oh,  never  forget 
How  angels  may  minister  to  us  yet. 
Though  the  night  be  dark,  so  sure  as  the  bright 
Light  of  day  break,  it  will  all  come  right  I" 

And  just  as  the  widow  said  "  right"  back 

Echoed  the  word  from  the  door;  while  —  Thwack  !  — 

Whack  ! !  Smack  !  !  !  three  singular  thumps  on  the  floor 

Of  the  stoop  outside  —  and  they  heard  no  more. 

"  It 's  the  angel !  "  said  Tim,  with  a  wary  crook 

Of  his  neck  about.     "  Just  let 's  take  a  look, 

If  no  one  's  afraid  !  "     And  out  with  a  bound 

He  went,  and  what  d'ye  think  he  found? 

An  enormous  hamper,  that  to  pull  in,  Prue 

Ned,  Jim,  and  Tim  had  all  they  could  do. 

A  turkey  that  weighed  twenty  pounds  if  an  ounce, 

And  parcels  of  goodies  that  made  small  Tim  bounce 

Up  and  down,  till  at  last  he  fell  over  flat 

And  trod  on  the  tail  of  the  thin  tabby  cat, 

And  then  a  huge  ham,  with  celery  too ; 

Bread,  butter,  and  oysters  enough  for  a  stew ; 

Parsnips,  potatoes,  cranberries,  cheese, 

Crackers,  sugar,  tea,  coffee —      Please 

Excuse  naming  all  the  family  found  had 

Been  packed  in  that  hamper  to  make  them  glad. 


36  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

And,  rest  assured,  ere  sleep  shut  their  eyes, 

From  the  humble  cot  to  the  Lord  of  the  skies 

And  earth  —  great  Giver  of  every  good  — 

Mother  and  children  gave  thanks  for  the  food 

Besought  not  in  vain.     Love  prompted  the  deed, 

And  kindness  responded  to  urgent  need. 

Ah  !  little  ones  all,  let  your  hearts  be  true 

To  do  unto  others  as  you  'd  have  tJiem  do 

To  you !     And  ye  parents,  remember  the  '"Rule." 

And  while  you  train  them,  keep  yourselves  in  that  school. 


OX    CHRISTMAS    ALL   HOLY 
By  L.  D.  C. 

OH.  what    shall  we  sing 
To  Christ  Jesus  our  King 
On  Christmas  all  holy  ? 
His  praises  we  "11  sing  ; 
Through  the  sky  let  them  ring 
From  hearts  meek  and  lowly. 

What  shall  we  present 

To  hail  His  descent 

On  Christmas  all  holy  ? 

Adoration  present 

And  truly  repent 

With  hearts  meek  and  lowly. 

Pure  gold  we  will  bring, 

Fit  gift  for  a  King, 

On  Christmas  all  holy  : 

True  love  we  will  bring, 

The  best  offering, 

From  hearts  meek  and  lowly  : 


THE   CHRIST  I  AX   YEAR.  37 

Frankincense  for  the  Priest 
Who  from  sin  hath  released, 
On  Christmas  all  holy. 
Our  souls.     O  High  Priest, 
At  Thy  heavenly  Feast 
Grant  hearts  meek  and  lowly  ! 

Self-sacrifice  give. 
And  others  forgive. 
On  Christmas  all  holy: 
This  the  myrrh  we  will  give 
To  Him  who  doth  live 
In  hearts  meek  and  lowly. 

If  thus  of  our  treasure 

We  give  without  measure 

On  Christmas  all  holy. 

Kingly  Babe,  our  soul's  Treasure, 

Thou  wilt  dwell  —  wondrous  pleasure  !  — 

In  hearts  meek  and  lowlv. 


DEAR    OLD    SANTA    CLAUS. 
By  F.  Burge  Griswold. 

DEAR  Old  Santa  Claus  !     How  do  you  do  ? 
I  have  been  looking  this  twelve-month  for  you. 
Never  has  time  seemed  so  weary  and  slow 
As  since  the  last  Christmas,  a  year  ago. 
Where  have  you  been,  sir  ?     What  under  the  sun 
Have  you  been  thinking,  and  what  have  you  done? 
So  many  children  to  welcome  your  face  ! 
So  many  longing  to  meet  your  embrace  ! 
Surely  you  should  n't  have  tarried  away  : 
Rather  let  Christmas-time  come  every  day." 

Santa  Claus  shook  off  the  snow  from  his  back, 
Loosed  and  put  down  his  cumbersome  pack, 


38  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Threw  his  fur  robes  and  his  gloves  on  a  chair, 
Took  his  seal  cap  from  his  thick,  grizzled  hair, 
Laughed  long  and  loud  at  the  sweet  little  girl, 
Wound  on  his  finger  a  soft,  golden  curl. 
Gave  her  a  kiss  on  her  fair,  dimpled  cheek, 
Then,  with  a  nod.  condescended  to  speak. 


••  My  little  maid.  I  am  right  glad  to  come. 

Bringing  good  cheer  to  yourself  and  your  home. 

I  've  been  as  busy  as  busy  could  be 

All  the  long  time  since  you  parted  from  me. 

Such  a  wide  journey  all  over  the  world, 

By  the  swift  speed  of  my  reindeers  whirled ! 

Now  in  the  valley,  and  then  up  so  high 

You  would  have  thought  I  could  reach  to  the  sky. 

Sometimes  I  stopped  to  buy  beautiful  things,  — 

Candies  and  toys,  silver  thimbles,  gold  rings. 

Dollies  and  trinkets,  and  books  rich  and  rare. 

Such  as  would  suit  my  young  friends  everywhere. 

Fitting  selection  is  no  easy  task  : 

But  to  give  pleasure  is  all  that  I  ask.  — 

Only  to  see  the  dear  boys  and  girls  glad 

Fully  repays  all  the  labor  I  've  had. 

I  "ve  been  as  eager  as  you  could  well  be 

For  the  blessed  night  with  the  bright  Christmas-tree, 

And  the  old  open  chimneys,  with  little  sabots 

Placed  in  the  corners,  and  tiniest  hose 

Hung  from  the  mantels,  awaiting  my  sleigh, 

At  even-  benevolent  visit  I  pay. 

Now  it  is  here.  I  must  up  and  be  doing  : 

Other  sweet  children  are  worthy  the  wooing. 

As  to  your  parcels,  to-morrow  will  show  : 

You  "11  find  your  red  stocking  filled  up  from  the  toe." 


Was  it  a  dream  ?     When  the  clear  morning  broke. 
Early  the  dear  little  maiden  awoke. 

Snow-birds  were  twittering. 

Icicles  glittering. 
Diamonds  and  pearls  making  brilliant  the  scene: 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  39 

Merry  bells  ringing, 

Gay  carols  singing, 
Everywhere  garlands  of  fresh  evergreen  ; 

Hearts  beat  so  merrily, 

Things  went  so  cheerily, 
Harp  and  dulcimer  all  the  day  long. 

Up  from  the  pillow  white 

Sprang  my  sweet  little  sprite, 
Clasping  her  hands  as  she  looked  o'er  the  scene; 

Unto  faith's  listening  ear 

Angel  songs  were  so  clear 
Almost  she  thought  to  see  bright  forms  on  high. 

Eager,  yet  soft  and  low, 

Whispered  she,  "  Oh,  I  know  ! 
This  is  the  Christmas  Day.     Santa  Claus  dear, 

While  I  was  sleeping 

Came  slyly  peeping 
Into  my  room  to  see  if  I  were  here. 

What  has  he  left  for  me  ? 

I  will  soon  run  and  see. 
First  let  me  thank  the  good  Lord  for  His  love,  — 

It  would  be  sad  indeed 

If  for  an  earthly  greed 
I  could  forget  the  great  Gift  from  above." 

Down  by  her  nest  of  snow 

Knelt  she,  with  face  aglow, 
Speaking  as  if  to  a  visible  friend  :  — 

"  Father,  I  think  of  Thee 

Gladly  and  gratefully 
For  all  the  good  it  has  pleased  Thee  to  send. 

But  there  is  one  best  thing 

Christmas  must  always  bring, 
And  only  one  : 

By  Thy  most  precious  grace 

Make  my  heart  fitting  place 
For  Thy  dear  Son. 

May  I  be  meek  and  mild, 

Like  to  the  Holy  Child  ; 
Let  Him  be  always  here  in  my  sweet  home. 


40  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

If  He  will  dwell  with  me, 
All  will  be  well  with  me ; 
Where  the  dear  Jesus  is  no  ill  can  come.'' 

Who  saw  the  wings  of  gold 

Flutter,  and  gently  fold 
Round  that  dear  object  of  God's  tender  care? 

Up  in  the  heavenly  place 

"  Their  angels  "  see  the  face 
Of  the  great  Father  of  faith  and  of  prayer. 

Blessed  are  those  that  know 

Such  ministry  below ! 
Blessed  the  heart  of  an  innocent  child  ! 

In  all  humility 

So  must  we  learn  to  be 
Like  unto  this  little  one  undefiled. 

Then  shall  the  Christmas-tide 

Blessing  and  joy  abide, 
There  will  be  holy-day  throughout  the  year; 

All  of  this  life  will  be 

Foretaste  of  purity.  — 
Such  as  is  known  in  the  glorified  sphere. 


HAIL!     HOLY    SOX    OF     GOD. 
By  the  Rev.  Arthur  W.  Little. 

HAIL!    Holy  Son  of  God. 
By  whom  the  worlds  were  made ; 
To  Thee,  Eternal  Word, 
Angels  their  homage  paid. 
Wilt  Thou  in  pitying  love, 
Ransom  us  from  the  grave. 
Stoop  from  Thy  throne  above, 
Mighty  to  save  ? 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  4 1 

Hail !  Son  of  maiden  mild, 
Whom  prophets  did  foretell; 
God,  as  a  little  child, 
Comes  down  with  us  to  dwell. 
Angels,  to  Bethlehem  fly  ; 
Sing  ye  Messiah's  birth  : 
Glory  to  God  on  High, 
And  peace  on  earth. 

Hail !  God  Incarnate  born  ; 
Angels  still  worship  Thee; 
Shepherds,  ere  break  of  dawn. 
Hasten  their  Lord  to  see. 
Lo  '  from  the  Orient  far 
Wise  men  their  offerings  bring, 
Led  by  Thy  natal  star, 

Own  Thee  their  King. 

Jesus,  our  Saviour  dear, 
We,  too,  would  worship  Thee, 
Joining  with  angels  here 
In  heavenly  minstrelsy. 
Thy  love  doth  never  fail ; 
Shall  we  not  love  Thee  well? 
Hail !  Mary's  Son,  all  hail ! 
Immanuel. 


CRADLE    HYMN    OF    THE   VIRGIN. 
By  Abbie  F.  Judd. 

DORM  I  Jesu,  mater  ridet. 
Quae  tarn  dulcem  somnum  videt, 
Dormi  Jesu  blandule ; 
Si  non  dormis,  mater  plorat, 
Inter  fila  cantans  orat, 
Blande,  veni,  somnule." 


42  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

"  Sleep,  my  Jesu,  tenderly  !  " 
Sang  a  mother  long  ago, 
'Neath  the  soft  Judean  starlight, 
Keeping  watch  into  the  far  night3 
Crooning  lovingly  and  low, 
"  Sleep,  my  Jesu,  tenderly  !  " 

"  Come,  soft  slumber,  balmily, 
Kiss  his  eyelids  soft  and  fair,'" 
Sang  the  mother,  while  adoring 
Angels  joined  the  chorus,  soaring, 
In  strange  melody  and  rare  — 
"  Come,  soft  slumber,  balmily  !  " 

"  If  thou  sleep  not,  mother  mourns," 
Sang  the  virgin  meek  and  mild, 
Clasping  close,  with  pure  affection, 
To  her  bosom's  sure  protection, 
Jesus  Christ,  her  little  child  — 
"  If  thou  sleep  not,  mother  mourns." 

"  Sleep,  my  Jesu,  tenderly  ! 

Take  thy  rest  and  fear  no  ill, 
Mother's  arms  shall  safe  enfold  thee, 
While  the  wond'ring  kings  behold  thee, 

And  with  gifts  thy  cradle  fill. 
Sleep,  my  Jesu,  tenderly  !  " 


GLORY    BE   TO    GOD    ON    HIGH. 
By  J.  J.  L.  England. 

SING  the  mystery  of  Love. 
Tell  ihe  wonder  of  this  morn, 
Sing  with  angel  hosts  above, 

Christ  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born  ! 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR. 


43 


Sing  the  song  that  shepherds  heard, 
Catch  the  heavenly  strain  again, 

Sing  of  Christ,  Incarnate  Word, 
Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men  ! 


Sing,  ye  wandering  orbs  of  light, 
Blazing  in  the  heavens  afar, 

Lo !  from  out  the  shades  of  night, 
Shines  the  bright  and  Morning  Star ! 


Mortals  join  the  choirs  above, 
On  this  happy  Christmas  morn, 

Sing  the  mystery  of  love, 
Unto  us  a  Child  is  born ! 


44  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

All  creation  join  and  sing, 
Swell  the  chorus  of  the  sky, 

Glory  to  the  New  Born  King ! 
Glory  be  to  God  on  High  ! 


BIRTH-SONG    OF    THE    MESSIAH. 
By  William  B.  Chisholm. 

I  hear  the  voices  of  sweet  seraphim 
Tuning  the  natal  hymn ; 
And  shepherds  resting  on  the  star-lit  plain 
Catch  up  the  glad  refrain. 

Wild  is  the  wind  on  lone  Judean  steep 
That  cradles  Nature's  sleep ; 
Yet  winds  shall  hush  in  gentlest  lullaby 
The  Infant  Christ-Child's  cry. 

Bring  richest  gifts  !  ye  wanderers  of  the  East, 
To  deck  the  royal  feast; 

Bend  low,  ye  kings,  and  girdled  warriors  bow 
Before  your  Monarch  now  ! 

Oh  !  deck  the  shrine  of  holy  praise  and  prayer 

With  all  that  is  most  fair 

Of  floral  garniture,  and  loudly  ring 

Your  welcome  to  the  King ! 

Beneath  the  green  and  star-bespangled  arches, 
A  joyous  army  marches, 
Of  the  young  Child's  own  chosen  little  ones, 
Wafting  their  antiphons. 

Sing  to  new-born  Messiah  songs  most  sweet, 
Here  in  His  temple  meet 

For  His  blest  feast ;  from  garners  full  outpour 
Harvest  and  vintage  store. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  45 

What  though  skies  scowl,  and  o'er  earth's  snowy  breast 

The  nightly  shadows  rest; 

There  is  no  night  in  this  glad  feast  of  souls. 

Hark,  how  the  anthem  rolls  ! 

"  All  glory  be  to  God  enthroned  on  high  ; 

To  mortals,  peace  and  love  ; 
Look  down,  Thou  blest  Immanuel,  look  down, 

With  favor  from  above  !  " 


A   CHRISTMAS    EVERGREEN. 
By  Maie  Allyne. 

5rT",WAS  the  merry  Christmas  eve,  and  gay 
J-      Were  the  streets  of  that  great  city's  heart 

With  hastening  ones,  and  rich  display 
Of  beauteous  gifts  that  friends  impart. 

There  were  faces  kind,  and  faces  bright 
Of  rich  and  poor,  of  old  and  young, 

There  were  those  who  walked  in  God's  pure  light. 
There  were  starving  ones  that  throng  among. 

And  looking  down  through  ether  blue 
Were  angels  who  had  sung  His  birth, 

To  see  what  the  moving  throng  would  do 
For  the  Holy  Child  who  walked  the  earth. 

They  saw,  in  a  widow's  cheerless  room, 

Two  little  ones  with  fever  burned, 
Whose  love  had  brightened  the  way  of  gloom ; 

There,  one  in  the  art  of  healing  learned 

Had  found  them,  radiant,  though  forlorn  ; 

For  the  mother's  love  had  placed  between, 
In  memory  of  the  Christ-Child  born, 

A  poor  little  waif  of  evergreen. 


46  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Two  mottoes  hung  from  the  slender  tree, 
And  the  light  of  tapers  two  burned  there, 

While  the  sick  were  pillowed  restfully; 
A  picture  sweet  in  the  room  so  bare. 

The  story  he  told  when  lights  burned  low, 
Where  three  little  stockings  brimming  held 

Such  pretty  toys  ;  with  the  morning's  glow, 
His  generous  children,  love  impelled, 

Sent  gifts,  which  the  two  might  waking  find, 
Whose  faces  bright  he  had  seen  that  eve, 

And  the  giving  made  their  hearts  more  kind, 
For  the  thread  of  joy  small  hands  could  weave. 

Ring  merrily  out,  ye  Christmas  chimes  ! 

For  gracious  years  of  the  story  old. 
Sing  His  gentle  words,  these  festal  times, 

Whose  love,  in  charity  sweet,  is  told. 


THE    NATIVITY. 
By  the  Rev.  F.  W.  Taylor,  S.  T.  D. 

IN  humble  guise,  an  Infant  fair 
Thou  cam'st,  our  human  form  to  wear. 
O  Son  of  God  Most  High ! 
In  darkest  night  Thy  beaming  Star 
Shed  o'er  the  nations  near  and  far 

The  light  of  heaven  brought  nigh. 

As  in  Thy  Blessed  Mother's  care 
Thou  gently  sleepest,  earth's  keen  air 

Trembles  with  angel  songs. 
"  Peace  on  the  earth  !     To  men  good  will ! 
Glory  to  God  !  "  and  "  Glory  !  "  still 

The  heavenly  choir  prolongs. 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR. 


47 


In  mystic  vision,  round  Thy  stall 
Behold  great  kings  and  prophets,  all 

Of  Israel's  sacred  line; 
While  seers  of  Gentile  race  proclaim 
The  world's  desire  in  Thy  sweet  name, 

And  hail  Thee  Son  Divine. 


SAINT    STEPHEN'S    DAY. 


By  Marion  Couthouy  Smith. 


w 


HO  art  thou,  Warrior,  bright  and  bold. 
With  armor  of  silver  and  crown  of  gold  ? 

—  The  soldier  of  Jesus  Christ  am  I, 
First  of  His  host  that  went  forth  to  die. 

What  are  those  palms  that  o'er  thee  wave? 

—  The  sign  of  my  victory  over  the  grave. 
Who  gave  thee  power  to  conquer  so  ? 

—  Jesus  Christ  on  His  Cross  of  woe. 

Why  is  thy  face  as  calm  and  bright 

As  an  angel's  standing  in  God's  own  sight  ? 

—  I  saw  the  light  of  His  eyes  and  brow; 
My  face,  as  a  mirror,  reflects  it  now. 

What  are  those  stains  on  thine  armor  spread  ? 

—  The  blood  that  for  His  dear  sake  I  shed. 
What  is  that  trophy  thou  bear'st  in  hand? 

—  The  stone  that  slew  me  at  His  command. 

What  is  that  ring,  as  of  sunbeams  bright, 
That  circles  thy  brow  with  wondrous  light? 

—  God  opened  Heaven,  and  His  rays  came  down 
About  my  head,  like  a  shining  crown. 

What  are  those  words,  so  strangely  sweet, 
That  ever  thy  smiling  lips  repeat  ? 

—  I  prayed,  "  Forgive  them  !  "  and  He  for  this. 
Taught  me  His  sweetest  song  of  bliss. 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  49 

Why  dost  thou  beckon  and  call  me  so  ? 
I  fear  to  follow  thy  path  of  woe  ! 

—  Never  fear  !     In  the  ways  of  pain, 
They  who  follow  find  richest  gain. 

What  is  the  joy  that  with  thee  they  share, 
The  badge  of  the  Crucified  who  wear  ? 

—  No  words  can  tell  it  —  no  heart  hath  known 
The  endless  joy  that  He  gives  His  own  ! 

How  shall  I  win  it,  O  warrior  bright  ? 

—  Wait  on  His  will  by  day  and  night ; 
Bear  all  for  Him,  and  like  Him  forgive, 
So  with  Him  shalt  thou  die  —  and  live  ! 


ST.     STEPHEN. 
By  Isabel  G.  Eaton. 

HE  stands  the  first  of  those  the  Master  willed 
Should  wear  the  Martyr's  crown, 
First  of  the  glorious  ones  whose  blood  was  spilled, 

Through  all  the  ages  down. 
His  youthful  feet  pressed  on  that  mystic  way, 
The  royal  road  of  human  agony, 
Nor  feared  he  shout  nor  frown. 

Thou  with  the  angel-face  !     Transfigured  ere 

The  spirit  left  its  clay, 
What  heavenly  voice  commands  thy  listening  ear 

That  thou  the  call  obey  ? 
It  is  the  Lord  !     The  heavens  opened  wide, 
Thy  mortal  eyes  the  sinless  One  descried, 

Beckoning  thy  soul  away. 

Not  long  thy  toiling  in  the  Master's  field, 
Not  long  the  race  to  run, 
4 


5° 


LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 


Though  wondrous  fruits  thy  tireless  labors  yield 

From  rise  till  set  of  sun. 
O  eager  soul !  with  zealous  love  aflame 
To  teach  the  world  the  power  of  Jesus'  Name, 

Too  soon  thy  victory  won. 


But  though  thy  hands  shall  never  celebrate 

The  Sacrifice  divine, 
Offered  by  those  who  at  His  altar  wait  — 

The  mystic  Bread  and  Wine  — 
No  Sacrament  thy  soul  immortal  needs. 
On  Jesus  glorified  thy  spirit  feeds, 

The  Church  Triumphant  thine  ! 


THE    INNOCENTS'  DAY. 
By  the  Rev.  C.  W.  Leffingwell,  D.D. 

THE  merry  Christmas  bells  have  ceased  to  ring 
Their  Alleluiahs  at  the  Saviour's  birth  ; 
The  happy  choirs  are  still,  they  cannot  sing 
To-day  their  song  of  joy  in  heaven  and  earth. 

The  manger-cradle  is  forsaken  now; 

Not  even  there,  the  Saviour's  head  may  rest. 
Thorn-crowned  already  is  that  placid  brow ; 

The  sword,  even  now,  doth  pierce  the  mother's  breast. 

Her  Child  shall  live  to  bear  the  cruel  cross, 
But  all  the  babes  in  Bethlehem  are  dead. 

Poor  Rachel  mourns,  and  knows  not,  in  her  loss, 
How  Christian  mothers  may  be  comforted. 

They  know,  as  she  knew  not,  the  gracious  end 
In  all  these  dealings  of  the  blessed  Lord,  — 

How  in  His  tender  mercy  He  doth  lend 
These  little  ones  to  witness  for  His  word. 

To  Him  alone  all  years  of  life  belong ; 

He  knoweth  when  to  give  and  take  away ; 
For  His  high  purpose  weakness  is  made  strong, 

A  thousand  years  are  counted  as  a  day. 

All  life  and  death  His  providence  fulfil, — 
The  days  of  childhood  and  the  years  of  man  ; 

No  life  so  short  that  doth  not  do  His  will, 
No  death  so  early  as  to  fail  His  plan. 


52  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

The  Holy  Innocents  of  Bethlehem, 

And  all  sweet  children  that  have  ever  died 

Are  safe  with  Him ;  no  harm  can  come  to  them, 
No  one  can  take  them  from  the  Saviour's  side. 

Though  absent,  still,  O  Rachel !  they  are  thine  ; 

Such  earthly  loss,  in  Paradise  is  gain. 
Set  full  with  stars,  in  Heaven  their  crowns  shall  shine 

Their  little  lives  have  not  been  lived  in  vain. 

Then  keep  with  chastened  joy  the  children's  day  ! 

O  mourner  !  see,  by  faith,  the  happy  throng 
Around  the  Lamb,  there  evermore  to  stay 

And  sing  before  the  throne  the  blest  new  song. 


THE    HOLY    INNOCENTS. 

By  Isabel  G.  Eaton. 

"  Not  in  speaking,  but  in  dying,  have  they  confessed  Christ." 

SWEET  flower-faces  !  seen  through  fronds  of  palm, 
Whose  golden  aureole 
Reflects  a  light  born  of  no  earthly  charm, 
Given  each  infant  soul. 

Slain  for  the  Christ-child  whom  they  never  knew, 

Have  they  the  story  learned  ? 
For  His  eternal  glory,  children  too 

The  martyr's  crown  have  earned. 

Haste,  little  ones,  the  risen  Christ  to  meet, 

Who  bade  your  souls  go  free  ! 
Go  follow  in  His  train,  and  kiss  His  feet.  — 

Your  eyes  shall  opened  be, 


54  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

To  see  immortal  visions,  fairer  far 

Than  given  to  earthly  eyes ; 
Your  souls  be  pearls  of  Heaven  —  each  a  star. 

To  shine  in  Paradise. 

Sweet  Innocents  !     The  holy  angels  learn 

With  you  this  mystery ; 
How  Love  Divine  could  from  His  Kingdom  turn, 

And  God  Incarnate  be. 

In  golden  carols  He  your  lips  has  blessed, 

To  mortal  speech  denied  ; 
In  speaking  not,  in  dying  ye  confessed 

The  Christ  once  crucified. 

Lead,  little  feet,  our  own  to  wander  through 

The  streets  of  Paradise  ! 
Through  mists  the  stars  shine  dim  —  but  to  our  view 

The  hills  of  heaven  arise. 

Our  hearts  are  faint,  our  steps  are  slow  — but  He 

Who  called  the  children  home 
Pleads  that  the  Vision  Blest  our  souls  may  see. 

O  come,  Lord  Jesu  !  come  I 


NEW   YEAR'S    EVE. 


By  the  Rev.  C.  W.  Leffingwell,  D.D. 


THE  night  is  starry,  bright,  and  clear 
With  moonlight  glimmering  on  the  < 
And  midnight  winds,  with  voices  low, 
Sing  dirges  for  the  dying  year. 


How  strangely  beautiful  the  night ! 
And  yet  to  some,  alas,  how  sad !  — 
Whose  hearts,  last  New  Year  gay  and  glad, 

Are  now  bereft  of  hope  and  light. 

Unwelcome  too  to  him,  in  truth, 

Whose  tyrant  memory  will  not  sleep, 
But  brings  back  from  oblivion's  deep 

Each  folly  of  his  wasted  youth  ; 

Reminds  him  of  the  golden  days 
That  have  departed,  one  by  one,  — 
The  little  good  his  life  has  done, 

And  all  the  error  of  his  ways. 

But  hark !     The  bell  strikes  twelve  o'clock  ; 

A  year  has  passed,  to  come  no  more  ; 

And  as  we  listen,  at  the  door 
We  seem  to  hear  a  stranger  knock. 


Old  Year,  I  pray  we  part  as  friends  ! 
Sincerely  we  can  say  "  Adieu  !  " 
And  as  we  welcome  in  the  New 

We  promise  him  to  make  amends,  — 


56  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

We  pledge  ourselves  to  nobler  deeds, 
To  loftier  thought,  and  purer  life, 
To  be  more  faithful  in  the  strife 

For  what  our  nobler  nature  pleads. 

Remembering  all  the  solemn  past. 
Its  lessons  treasured  in  the  heart, 
So  we  will  live  and  act  our  part 

As  if  this  Xew  Year  were  our  last. 


THE   OLD    AND    THE    XEW. 
By  Callie  L.  Bonney. 

AT  portal  of  the  heavenly  land. 
Where  beauteous  pearl  gates  gleaming  stanch 
The  Old  Year  waits. 
His  earthly  work  and  mission  done, 
To  yield  his  regal  crown  to  one 
Beyond  the  gates. 

His  silver  hair  in  fading  light 

Has  caught  the  gleam  of  sunset  bright.  — 

A  halo  fair,  — 
It  touches  with  majestic  grace 
The  noble  beauty  of  his  face, 

And  lingers  there. 

His  aged  hands  a  volume  hold 
Where  story  of  his  reign  is  told, 

Its  loss  and  gain,  — 
Some  spotless  pages,  writ  in  gold ; 
While  others  legends  dark  unfold 

Of  wrong  and  pain. 


o 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  57 

But  joyous  bells  proclaim  at  last 
The  Old  Year's  reign  is  of  the  past ; 

And  open  gates 
Admit  to  earth  a  youthful  King, 
While  golden  chimes  exultant  ring 

And  Hope  awaits. 


THE    OLD    YEAR. 
By  F.  R.  W. 

Here  we  have  no  continuing  city.  —  Hebrews  xiii.  14. 

H   that  the  pilgrim  years  would  sometimes  stay  ! 
Stay  for  a  little  where  the  palm-trees  bend, 


And  with  the  willows  in  the  trembling  stream 

Their  shadows  blend  ! 
Alas  !  they  may  not  stay  ;  for  through  the  sandy  plain 
And  rocky  vale  life's  journey  must  be  pressed 

To  its  true  rest. 

But  as  we  leave  behind  our  happy  days. 

Though  thought  of  change  may  bring  the  rising  tear, 

Yet  to  the  future  dim  we  turn  our  face. 

And  feel  no  fear  : 
For  He  who  through  the  burning  desert  guides 
Knows  when  the  weary  feet  need  healing  balm 

And  nights  of  calm. 


No  fear  that  little  ones  with  tender  limbs 
Should  be  o'erdriven  by  the  Love  that  leads : 
Labor  and  rest  are  set  by  One  who  knows 

All  our  hearts'  needs  ; 
And  while  our  tents  are  struck  or  pitched  again 
At  eve,  alike,  O  Lord,  our  souls  can  rest 

On  Thv  dear  breast. 


THE   EPIPHANY. 
By  N.  M.  Hitchcock. 

THE  Christmas  carols  die  away, — 
The  strains  of  holy  mirth 
With  which  that  blessed  natal  day 
Is  hymned  by  heaven  and  earth  ; 
The  Church  in  triumph  now  doth  sing 
That  Bethlehem's  babe  is  Christ  the  King; 
And,  while  the  Magi  bend  the  knee, 
She  hails  his  glad  Epiphany  ! 


Once  over  trackless  realms  of  night 
The  voice  of  God  was  heard,  — 
The  voice  that  said,  "  Let  there  be  light 
And  light  sprang  at  the  word. 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  59 

The  morning  stars  then  sang  for  joy  ; 
A  nobler  theme  is  our  employ 
When,  Light  of  Lights,  we  bow  to  Thee, 
Hailing  Thy  blest  Epiphany  ! 

Streaming  with  dazzling  beams  from  heaven, 

Shineth  the  light  of  day, 
White  with  prismatic  colors  seven 

Mingling  in  one  pure  ray  : 
Thus  with  the  "  seven-fold  gifts  "  divine 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness  doth  shine ; 
And  as  His  glorious  beams  we  see 
We  hail  His  bright  Epiphany  ! 

And,  kneeling  at  His  feet,  implore 

Our  path  may  be  the  way 
That  shineth  ever  more  and  more 

Unto  the  perfect  day; 
Till  in  the  heavenly  city  bright, 
That  needs  of  sun  nor  moon  the  light, 
We,  in  His  likeness  clothed,  may  be 
Blest  in  that  great  Epiphany  ! 


THE    FEAST    OF    CANDLEMAS. 
By  W.  B.  Chisholm. 

WITH  burnished  lamps  and  bright 
In  dim  midwinter  light 
Let  altars  gleam,  and  for  thy  festal  theme 
The  Christ-Child  in  the  temple  :  there  behold 
Long  waiting  Simeon,  —  seer  and  holy  sage, 
Last  relic  of  the  old  Hebraic  age  ; 
Rejoicing  he  to  welcome  this  the  Child 
Whose  star  of  late  made  glad  the  winter  mild. 


6o 


LYRICS  OF    THE   LIVING   CHURCH. 


The  sheaves  of  glad  ingathering 

Are  withered  now, 
And  the  tiny  buds  of  nearing  spring 

Shiver  beneath  pathless  snow. 
O  soul,  hast  thou  no  flowers 
To  glad  these  holy  hours  ? 
No  garden,  thou  my  heart, 
Warmed  by  thy  pious  art, 
Screened  from  the  north-wind's  breath  ? 
Is  it  winter  all,  and  death  ? 
Shall  not  sweet  Candlemas  be  gay 
With  rose  or  marigold,  I  pray, 
Wreathen  with  green  of  Yule  ? 
There  in  the  frozen  pool 
Methought  the  lily  raised  its  head 
From  its  ice-tomb,  pale  and  dead, 
If  it  might  but  honored  be, 
Culled  and  laid  on  the  altar  there, 
While  the  sweet  strains  of  festivity 
Gladden  the  morn's  chill  air, 
And  the  lamps  of  Candlemas  grow  bright 
O'er  the  dark  midwinter  night. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  6 1 

LEXTEX    TWILIGHT. 
By  the  Rev.  C.  W.  Leffingwell,  D.  D. 

THROUGH  the  twilight  into  darkness, 
Daylight  glories  gently  fade, 
And  by  exquisite  gradations 

Sunlight  passes  into  shade ; 
Ever  between  light  and  shadow 
Some  soft  middle-tint  is  laid. 

As  in  all  the  world  around  us, 

So  through  all  the  world  within ; 
Daylight  joys  in  twilight  linger 

When  our  nights  of  grief  begin  ; 
Over  sadness  broods  the  memory 

Of  the  gladness  that  has  been. 

In  the  Church,  by  such  transition, 

Changes  now  the  Christian  year  ; 
And  between  the  light  and  shadow 

Mellow  middle-tints  appear  — 
God's  great  love  and  glory  blending 

With  our  night  of  evil  here. 

Ere  the  Lenten  shadows  deepen, 

While  before  our  dazzled  eyes 
Fades  Epiphany's  great  splendor, 

Blessed  twilight  veils  the  skies, 
And  the  star  of  Bethlehem  lingers 

Over  where  the  young  Child  lies. 


62  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

SEPTUAGESIMA. 

By  Thomas  Mair. 

HHHE  Christmas  garlands  withered  lie 
-JL       Upon  the  frozen  earth, 
Type  of  the  soon  forgotten  vows 
We  made  at  Jesus'  birth. 

The  rosy  flush  of  early  morn 
Has  changed  to  noontide's  ray, 

As  life's  first  hopes  and  joys  depart, 
When  trials  crowd  its  day. 

The  guiding  star  no  longer  leads 
The  pilgrim's  onward  way, 

Through  gloom  and  desert  to  the  place 
Where  once  the  Saviour  lay. 

But  Lord,  Thy  weary  feet  once  trod 
The  path  our  feet  must  tread, 

And  Thou  hast  felt  the  pain  and  grief 
Which  bow  each  drooping  head. 

To  Thee  alone  we  look  for  aid, 
Though  love  seems  faint  and  chill, 

For  Thou  hast  felt  the  tempter's  power 
And  foiled  his  work  of  ill. 

We  ask  not  that  Thy  loving  care 

Bid  earthly  sorrow  flee  ; 
For  pain  and  anguish,  by  Thy  grace, 

Bring  contrite  hearts  to  Thee. 

We  only  pray  that  Thou  wilt  make 

Our  souls,  by  worldly  loss, 
More  like  to  Thine,  that  we  may  share, 

The  blessings  of  Thy  Cross. 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  63 

QUINQUAGESIMA. 

By  N.  M.  Hitchcock. 

THE  Church  doth  many  lessons  teach 
Of  faith,  and  hope,  and  love, 
She  bids  us  learn  their  blessedness 

And  all  their  sweetness  prove, 
As  through  the  "  Christian  zodiac  " 
The  hallowed  seasons  move. 

Now  as  the  Lenten  warning  sounds, 

She  calls  to  fast  and  prayer, 
That  all  our  works  are  nothing  worth 

Unless  that  love  we  share,  — 
The  love  that  led  the  sinless  One 

For  man  the  cross  to  bear. 

She  bids  us  learn  the  charity 

That  seeketh  not  its  own ; 
She  telleth  us  how  mighty  love 

Did  for  our  sins  atone, 
And  how  our  Elder  Brother  bore 

For  us  the  cross  alone. 

Her  voice  we  heed,  and  pray  Thee,  Lord, 

For  the  perfect  charity, 
Without  which,  whosoever  lives 

Is  counted  dead  by  Thee  — 
That  gift  of  gifts,  which  greater  is 

Than  to  know  all  mystery. 

Knowledge  shall  fail  and  pass  away, 

The  gift  of  tongues  shall  cease  ; 
But  charity  remains  for  aye, 

The  very  bond  of  peace ; 
Oh !  send  Thy  Holy  Spirit,  Lord  ; 

Our  charity  increase  ! 


64  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING  CHURCH. 

So  shall  we  keep  the  "  Feast  of  feasts,' 
With  hearts  from  self  set  free ; 

So  shall  we  dwell  in  perfect  love,  — 
Thy  children's  liberty ; 

So  shall  we  hear  the  Master  say, 
"  Ye  blessed,  come  to  me  !  " 


FAITH,    HOPE,    AND    LOVE. 
By  Mary  Ann  Thomson. 

FOR  Faith  that  conquers  earth  ; 
For  Hope,  our  anchor  sure  ; 
For  Love,  of  heavenly  birth, 

That,  fadeless,  shall  endure  ; 
Let  praise  ascend  to  God  above, 
Giver  of  Faith  and  Hope  and  Love. 

By  faith  we  look  on  God 

By  mortal  eye  unseen  ; 
We  mark  His  guiding  rod, 

And  on  His  staff  we  lean  ; 
The  banner  of  the  cross  unfurled 
We  grasp,  and  overcome  the  world. 

By  hope  our  spirits  soar 

To  join  the  victor  band, 
Who  on  the  blissful  shore 

With  crowns  and  palms  shall  stand. 
Like  ships  that  safely  anchored  lie, 
Are  hearts  whose  hope  is  set  on  high. 

By  love  our  souls  we  yield 
To  God,  who  deigns  to  call ; 

And  strive  that  all  be  healed 
By  Him  who  died  for  all ; 

Faith,  hope,  and  k>ve  our  hearts  uplift, 

But  love,  we  own,  the  greatest  gift. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR. 


65 


Faith  shall  give  place  to  sight 
When  earth  shall  pass  way 

And  hope,  to  sweet  delight. 
When  dawns  eternal  day ; 

But  love  refined,  where  all  is  pure 

To  endless  ages  shall  endure. 


■ng  nun  h  •    ,^--^^^ 


A    LENTEN    LYRIC. 
By  Catharine  Maria  Morris. 

AMID  the  shadows  let  me  lie 
Where  Thou  didst  agonize  and  die, 
While  my  soul  lifts  its  mournful  cry ! 
Mea  culpa! 

Of  all  Thy  human  nature  bore, 
The  tempest's  rush,  the  billows1  roar, 
The  wandering  feet  from  sea  to  shore, 
Mea  culpa  ! 

Faint  by  the  wild  Tiberian  sea, 
All  spent  and  worn  by  Galilee, 
Mighty  to  save,  we  cry  to  Thee, 
Mea  culpa! 

No  plea  have  I  from  guilt  and  sin, 
No  claim  the  heavenly  home  to  win, 
Only  Thy  pardoning  "  Enter  in," 
Mea  culpa  ! 


Above  the  cross,  above  the  tomb, 
Through  all  the  Lenten  shadow's  gloom, 
Doth  light  ineffable  illume  ! 

Mea  culpa! 


68  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING  CHURCH. 

LENT. 
By  Frances  A.  M.  Johnson. 

KNOW  ye  the  Shepherd's  voice?     He  calleth  thee 
To  leave  the  highways  and  the  busy  throng 
On  wealth  and  pleasure  bent,  to  climb  the  steeps 
Of  sacrifice  and  chant  the  Lenten  song. 

He  calleth  thee  to  mountain  solitudes 
Where  the  world  is  not,  but  He  its  Saviour  is  ; 
There  to  thy  peaceful  soul  he  will  reveal 
Himself  and  His  most  holy  mysteries. 

As  to  the  world  will  He  not  speak  to  thee  : 
Thou  shalt  behold  His  face,  transfigured,  shine, 
And  heaven  descend  upon  the  mountain's  brow 
Enfolding  thee  in  clouds  of  light  divine. 

And  if  in  duty's  path  thou  find'st  delight 

In  fond  obedience  to  His  gentle  call, 

Thou 'It  meet  Him  somewhere  every  day  ;  thy  home, 

A  Bethany,  will  know  His  footsteps'  fall. 

If  thou  give  but  a  cup  of  water  cool 

To  do  Him  service,  by  the  shady  well 

Thou  'It  find  him  resting  when  thou  com'st  to  draw, 

And  in  thy  heart  shall  living  waters  swell. 

And  when  the  paschal  moon  at  midnight  moves 
Above  the  olives  of  Gethsemane, 
Tracing  thy  shadow  and  thy  Saviour's  on 
The  sward  His  feet  pressed  in  His  agony; 

While  Kedron  murmurs  o'er  its  stony  bed, 
He  '11  tell  thee  all  the  wonders  of  that  night 
When  Love  Divine  did  sweat  great  drops  of  blood, 
And  angels  strengthened  Him  for  Calvary's  height. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  69 

LENT. 
By  Thomas  Mair. 

AS  the  soft  gleams  at  daylight's  gentle  close 
With  ling'ring  beauty  fill  the  scene  with  peace ; 
When  the  low  murmurs  of  the  woodland  cease, 
And  every  care  is  soothed  to  sweet  repose 
That  life  in  fervid  noontide  never  knows,  — 
So  com'st  thou,  Lent,  to  bring  my  soul  release 
From  thrall  of  sin  ;  to  cleanse  the  soiled  fleece 
Of  Christ's  own  flock  in  that  pure  stream  which  flows 
Forever  living  from  His  riven  side. 
We  rest  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  cross 
Where  once  He  hung,  and  though  the  world  counts  loss 
Glad  joys  resigned,  if  we  with  Christ  may  bide 
And  share  His  sorrow,  all  the  rest  is  dross, 
For  we  shall  gain  the  life  for  which  He  died. 


A    LENTEN    HYMiNL 
By  Mrs.  J.  L.  Moore. 

HEAR  Thy  servant's  meditations,  Lord  of  light  and 
love  divine  !  — 
Hear  my  sad  soul's  supplications,  and  incline  my  will  to 

Thine  ! 
I  have  suffered  long  and  sadly,  and  my  soul  in  darkness 

pines : 
But  to  Thee  I  turn,  oh,  gladly !  —  on  Thy  truth  my  heart 

reclines. 
May  this  time  of  prayer  and  fasting,  all  these  hours  of 

holy  rest, 
Bring  me  treasures  everlasting,  be  to  me  a  season  blest. 


70  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Purge  my  heart,  O  Lord,  and  try  me,  but  with  mercy's 

gentlest  touch  ! 
No  good  thing  of  Thine  deny  me !     Let  me  love  Thee 

overmuch ! 
Thou  canst  see  my  pride  and  passion,  all  my  faults  and 

follies  view ; 
Thou  canst  with  divine  compassion   see  my  faults,  and 

pity  too. 
Thou  alone  canst  give  me  pardon,  Thou  alone  affliction 

stay : 
Take  from  me,  most  blessed  Warden,  sin  and  suffering 

away  ! 
Fit  me  for  the  heavenly  mansion,  where  alone  is  perfect 

peace,  — 
Where  the  soul,  with  sweet  expansion,  shall  in  godliness 

increase ; 
And  at  last,  when  life  is  over,  and  this  weary  spirit  free, 
Take  me,  Jesus,  Friend,  and  Lover, — take  me  home  to 

dwell  with  Thee  ! 


VIA   DOLOROSA. 

By  Brad  Courtlaxd. 

ECCE   HOMO!"   said   the    Roman   prelate    Pilate, 
stern  and  loud ; 
Answered   back   with   fierce    revilings    the   hard-hearted 

Jewish  crowd ; 
Came  then  from  the  grand  Praetorium,  with  head  thorn- 
crowned  and  bowed, 
The  Royal  Victim  stately,  and  behold,  a  pallid  cloud 
Shadowed  Via  Dolorosa,  as  the  Roman  prelate  proud 
Washed   his   hands  before   the  rabble,   and  in   trumpet 

tones  and  loud 
Said  the  ban  on  every  Jewish  child  and  parent  in  the 
crowd. 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR, 


71 


The    Royal  Victim,  bending  underneath   His  weight  of 

woe, 
Climbed  the  Via  Dolorosa  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  — 
Left  behind  the  glorious  city  bathed  in  richest  Syrian 

glow, 
While  the  branching  limes  and  olives,  swaying  gently  to 

and  fro, 
Kissed  the  heated  brow  of  Him  whose  faltering  steps  and 

slow 
Climbed  up  Via  Dolorosa,  fainting  'neath  that  weight  of 

woe, 
Jeered  by  the  Jewish  rabble  eighteen  hundred  years  ago. 

Let  us  veil  our  Christian  faces,  we  the  Christians  of 
to-day  ! 

"  Crucify  Him,  Crucify  Him,1'  did  the  Jewish  rabble  say! 

Does  no  other  heartless  rabble  catch  the  note  from  far 
away, 

As  it  comes  down  through  the  ages  of  the  dimming  cen- 
turies gray? 

Lo  !  the  warm  Egyptian  lilies,  blooming  now  as  bloomed 
for  aye ; 

And  the  mellow  Syrian  sunset  gathering  jewels  from  the 
day! 

Hear  again  the  wandering  echoes,  "  Crucify  Him,"  do 
they  say ! 

Floating  down  the  tide  of  ages  comes  again  the  muffled 

strain  — 
"  Crucify    Him,  Crucify   Him!   on  our   children   be   the 

stain." 
Drooped  the  gorgeous  Syrian  lilies,  nestling  in  the  golden 

grain  — 
On  the  Via  Dolorosa  did  the  Kingly  Victim  drain 
All   that   bitter   cup   of  anguish  ;  still   the   solemn,  sad 

refrain 
Is  sent  back  through  all  the  ages,  "  He  is  crucified  again." 
And  alike  on  Jew  and  Gentile  rests  the  seal  of  His  blood 

stain. 


72  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

A   SONG    FOR    LENT. 
By  Flora  L.  Stan  field. 

THE  happiest  time  ?     If  my  halting  rhyme 
Should  herald  the  happiest  days 
That  ever  appear  in  the  Christian's  year 

And  call  us  the  Lord  to  praise, 
It  would  turn  to  a  song,  with  a  purpose  strong, 

To  honor  this  season  sweet 
When  we  meet  with  Him  in  the  dawning  dim 
And  kneel  at  His  sacred  feet. 

The  loveliest  hue  ?     It  is  neither  the  blue 

That  lives  in  the  cloudless  sky, 
Nor  the  blush  which  glows  on  the  face  of  the  rose 

As  the  sunbeam  passes  by  ; 
But  the  royal  tint  that  its  kisses  print 

On  the  cheeks  of  the  passion-flower.  — 
The  violet  sheen  that  is  fitly  seen 

At  the  Lenten  trysting  hour. 

The  sweetest  tale  ?     Let  the  thoughtless  rail 

At  the  joy  which  the  sick  soul  finds, 
As  the  story  old  of  the  Cross  is  told 

And  the  Lenten  scroll  unwinds. 
But  we  rejoice,  as  the  preacher's  voice 

Grows  faint  with  the  hallowed  theme, 
To  think  that  we  may  his  hearers  be 

And  the  Lord's  own  servants  seem. 

And  so  we  tread,  divinely  led, 

In  the  path  that  His  patience  tried, 
And  we  share  His  fast  that  we  may  at  last 

With  Him  at  His  feast  abide. 
We  do  not  mourn  for  the  garments  torn 

In  the  fray  with  the  scoffing  world. 
As  we  walk  each  day  where  he  leads  the  way, 

With  our  violet  flag:  unfurled. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  73 

LENT. 
By  L.  D.  S. 

WITH  whispered  pleadings,  soft  and  low,  again 
The  Saviour  speaks  in  every  heart  and  home.  — 
I  go  to  bear  my  cross  in  bitter  pain  : 

Wilt  thou  not,  too,  take  up  thy  cross,  and  come  ? 

Thou  didst  my  praises  at  the  Christmas  feast 

With  happy  heart  continually  sing ; 
Thou  wentest  with  the  wise  men  of  the  East 

To  my  poor  cradle  costly  gifts  to  bring. 

Would'st  thou  still  wear  the  crown,  yet  bear  no  loss? 

Smile  when  I  smile,  yet  never  with  me  weep  ? 
Would'st  thou  enjoy  all  gain,  yet  feel  no  loss  ? 

Through  all  my  agony  for  thee,  still  sleep  ? 

Oh !  if  I  left  a  heaven  of  perfect  bliss. 

That  thou  mightest  some  day  have  it  for  thy  home, 
Wilt  thou  not  do  so  small  a  thing  as  this, 

And  when  I  call,  take  up  thy  cross  and  come?  " 


"GOOD    LORD,    DELIVER   US." 
By  C.  J.  G. 

FROM  all  the  toils  of  evil  men, 
From  words  unkind  and  hearts  untrue, 
From  secret  griefs  which  may  have  been, 
From  cherished  guilt  of  every  hue  — 
Deliver  us,  good  Lord, 
According  to  Thy  word. 


74  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

From  all  the  leprosy  of  sin. — 
That  inward  fretting,  deep  and  dread, 

That  loathsome  plague  which  spreads  within, 
And  living,  counts  us  with  the  dead  — 
Deliver  us.  good  Lord. 

From  wandering  feet  which  slip  and  slide 
Far  from  the  blessed  paths  of  peace, 

From  every  ill  which  may  betide, 

From  all  that  stays  our  soul's  increase  — 
Deliver  us,  good  Lord. 

From  all  assaults  of  death  and  hell, 
All  base  allegiance  with  the  foe  — 

Beguilings  which  we  see  full  well. 

And  subtle  snares  we  may  not  know,  — 
Deliver  us,  good  Lord. 

From  all  half-hearted  fealty, 

Oh  !  gracious  Father,  Helper,  Friend, 

From  all  ingratitude  to  Thee, 

Who  lovest  Thine  own  unto  the  end  — 
Deliver  us,  good  Lord. 


By  Thy  divine  and  perfect  grace, 

The  love  which  makes  us  one  with  God, 
By  the  compassion  in  Thy  face  ; 
Deliver  us,  good  Lord. 

By  all  the  lame  Thy  hand  hath  healed, 

By  all  the  suffering  ones  restored, 
By  all  the  blinded  eyes  unsealed; 
Deliver  us,  good  Lord. 

By  every  precious  drop  of  blood 

For  our  redemption  once  outpoured, 
By  every  hour  on  shameful  rood  — 
Deliver  us,  good  Lord. 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  75 

By  every  throb  of  mortal  pain, 

By  every  trembling  nerve  and  cord, 
By  all  Thy  loss  —  our  dearest  gain  — 
Deliver  us,  srood  Lord. 


Since  Thou  for  us  didst  deign  to  die, 
O  Son  of  Mary,  Son  of  God  ! 

Then  by  Thy  last  expiring  cry  — 
Deliver  us,  good  Lord, 
According  to  Thy  word. 


THE    SHADOW   OF    THE    CROSS. 
By  Amelia  Truesdell. 

ISA  W  a  peasant  woman  bent  and  old, 
With  dusty  footsteps  tread  the  broad  highway 
A  burden  on  her  patient  shoulders  lay ; 
Her  brow  bore  trace  of  sorrows  manifold. 

I  saw  where  one  —  perhaps  for  sins  untold  — 
Had  raised  a  wayside  cross  of  massive  stone; 
Beneath  its  shadow  where  a  fountain  shone 
She  rested  on  the  cool  and  fragrant  mould. 

When  heavy  on  me  weighs  life's  load  of  care, 
Till  other  touch  were  more  than  I  could  bear, 
And  o'er  my  soul  there  steals  a  solemn  rest, 
So  sweet  it  could  be  none  but  heavenly  guest, 
Then  know  I  that  the  Cross  of  Calvary's  tree 
Has  cast  its  healing  shade  of  peace  on  me. 


76  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

LENT'S    USES. 

By  Mrs.  J.  D.  H.  Browne. 

"  T    IFE  has  so  little  joy  !  "  I  hear  you  say, 
J — 4     "  And  not  a  passing  hour  but  brings  its  trial ; 
'T  is  well  for  those  who  tread  the  flowery  way, 
To  pause  awhile  and  practice  self-denial ; 

"  But  as  for  me,  it  almost  makes  me  smile, 
For  all  the  year  is  Lent  in  fullest  measure ; 
Where  every  day  brings  with  it  care  and  toil, 

Think  you  the  need  is  great  to  turn  from  pleasure  ? 

"  Ah  !  it  sounds  well,  this  giving  up  the  world, 

For  those  whose  hearts  are  sated  with  its  sweetness ; 
To  rest  at  anchor  with  the  white  sails  furled, 
Then  on  again,  in  sunshine  and  in  fleetness. 

"  But  as  for  me  —  I  have  no  time  to  rest 

And  lose  myself  in  saintly  contemplation ; 
No  need  to  fast  from  what  I  never  taste, 
Or  put  aside  what  never  is  temptation." 

Ah,  friend !  it  is  because  your  lot  is  hard, 
Because  you  walk  in  dry  and  stony  places, 

Because  God's  precious  gift  of  life  is  marred, 
And  lacks  for  you  its  common  good  and  graces, 

That  I  would  have  you  pause,  and  turn  aside 
Into  the  Lenten  shadow,  calm  and  holy, 

There  for  a  little  blessed  space  abide, 

Laying  your  burden  down  and  kneeling  lowly. 

For  cares,  no  less  than  pleasures,  may  be  bars 

To  shut  out  God  ;  and  'neath  our  burdens  bending 

We  grope  our  weary  way  beneath  the  stars, 

Nor  ever  see  the  heavenly  light  they're  lending. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  77 

Ah,  friend  !  it  is  because  of  way-worn  feet 
And  hearts  that  hunger  for  a  richer  dower 

Than  toil  and  care,  that  there  is  this  retreat, 

Where  we  may  learn  God's  nearness  and  his  power. 

Shade  of  a  "  Great  Rock  in  a  weary  land," 

Shade  of  the  Cross,  its  precious  burden  bearing ! 

Here  may  we  learn  to  grasp  the  pierced  Hand, 
And  rest  upon  the  Heart  our  sorrow  sharing. 

Here  learn  the  awful  secret  of  His  Love, 

The  pity,  passing  knowledge,  still  forgiving ! 

Here  find  the  Peace,  which  this  world  cannot  move, 
The  joy  of  loving  and  the  grace  of  living. 


"CLEANSE   US,    O    LORD." 
By  Alice  Crary. 

JESUS  !  our  feet  are  travel-stained  and  weary 
With  wand'ring  through  the  self-made  path^of  sin  ; 
Master,  the  way  we  trod  was  long  and  dreary, 
And  now  we  come  to  Thee,  Oh,  take  us  in  ! 

Oh,  wash  our  feet,  dear  Lord,  and  turn  them  homeward  ; 

Thy  feet  for  us  toiled  up  Mount  Calvary, 
Thy  feet  for  us  were  pierced  in  bitter  anguish, 

Oh,  let  the  precious  blood-drops  fall  on  me. 

O  Christ,  these  weary  hands  were  used  against  Thee, 
And  now,  bound  fast  by  Satan,  helpless  lie  ; 

Begrimed  by  sin,  all  torn  and  bruised  and  bleeding, 
In  pity  loose  and  heal  them  !     Hear  our  cry  ! 

Thy  hands,  O  loving  Saviour,  toiled  for  us, 
Thy  hands,  O  Jesus,  raised  the  sick  and  dead, 

Thy  hands  in  weakness  bore  the  heavy  burden, 
Thy  hands,  O  Lord,  for  us  were  pierced  and  bled. 


78  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

O  Christ,  behold  our  heads  now  bow'd  in  sorrow : 
We  bring  them  tired  and  aching  to  Thy  breast, 

The  mind  obscured  by  doubts  and  thoughts  of  evil: 
Forgive.  O  Lord !  and  give  the  weary  rest. 

Thy  head.  O  Jesu.  now  in  glory  crowned. 

Gave  forth  the  bloody  sweat  of  agony  : 
And  then,  dear  Lord,  with  thorny  crown  encircled, 

Bowed  low,  and  dying  gavest  Thy  Life  for  me. 

Remember  in  Thy  kingdom,  Lord.  Thy  passion, 

Remember,  too,  our  human  frailty. 
And  in  Thy  mercy,  grant  Thy  absolution 

And  give  Thy  strength  that  we  may  conquerors  be. 

Oh.  wash  us.  Lord,  and  cleanse  us  from  all  evil. 

From  strength  to  strength  lead  us.  dear  Lord,  we  pray 
That  in  this  world  our  part  of  loving  service 

May  win  the  Part  that  fadeth  not  away. 


HUMILITY. 

By  Marion  Couthouy  Smith. 

OH.  last,  best  grace  of  all ! 
When  we  have  striv'n  to  soar  in  pride  and  strength 
Toward  glorious  heights  of  soul,  serenely  fair. 
Dreaming  to  dwell  thus  in  a  pure  air. 
But  our  poor  wings  have  failed  —  how  sweet  at  length 
To  let  the  struggle  go.  and  in  Thine  Arms  to  fall ! 

But  teach  me,  Lord,  while  yet  I  can  withstand  — 
Ere  I  must  drop,  for  very  weariness, 

And  failure's  cruel  stress  — 

Xow  to  fly  low.  and  lay  my  strength  and  pride 
Down  in  the  hollow  of  Thy  pierced  Hand. 

For  love  alone,  since  Thou  my  King  wert  crucified. 


THE   CHRIST  I  AX   YEAR. 

THE    STATIONS    OF    THE    CROSS. 
By  William  B.  Chisholm. 

THY  Lord's  last  weary  hours, 
Before  thee  on  the  canvas  luminous, 
Speak  to  thy  heart  amid  these  gaudy  bowers, 
Amid  the  maze  of  earthly  leaves  and  flowers. 
The  sight  of  Him,  the  Lamb  Vicarious, 
Who  is  the  Very  Paschal  Lamb  for  us, 
May  sober  thee;  and  lift  thy  earth-bent  eye 
To  gaze  upon  this  last  great  mystery. 

Behold  the  awful  passage  up  the  hill ! 
Dost  thou  discern  one  ray  of  sympathy  ? 
Look  at  that  Roman  sentinel !     He  stands 
Poising  his  spear  between  his  horny  hands, 
Spear  that  shall  pierce  the  Mediator's  side, 
Spear  that  to  crown  transformed  is  glorified 
In  this  thy  gaze  :  it  pierced  thy  Lord,  but  then 
That  Blood  redeemed  thee.     Even  so,  Amen. 

Ob,  Simon  of  Cyrene  !  seems  it  hard 

That  thou  awhile  must  bear  that  heavy  load, 
While  He  of  Nazareth  shall  seize  brief  rest? 

Prouder  than  laurel  wreath  that  decks  the  bard, 
Or  star-gemmed  crown  upon  dead  hero's  breast, 

Be  this  to  thee !     Go  hence  to  thine  abode 
Tear-dimmed ;  yet  like  a  conquering  monarch  go, 
With  this  one  thought:  that  thou  hast  borne  for  Him 
For  one  brief  spell  the  burden  that  shall  lift 

All  other  weight  from  lost  humanity. 
Whereon  shall  hang  the  harps  of  seraphim 

In  the  immortal  ages  yet  to  be ; 
There,  there  it  stands  at  noon-day  strange  and  dim, 

An  awful  portent  'gainst  the  darkened  sky, 

Yet  is  it  life  and  light  and  victory  ! 


79 


80  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

O  thou,  august  o'er  all  sweet  womanhood, 
Thou  ever  blest  and  ever  holy  one, 
Gazing,  tear-dimmed,  upon  thy  bleeding  Son, 
Behold  thy  King !  and  in  this  beam  of  wood 
On  which  a  bleeding  Sufferer  He  hangs, 
Forget,  O  Virgin  blest !  a  mother's  pangs, 
And  mortal  yet,  and  human  e'en  as  we, 
Low  at  His  Cross  behold  the  Deity ! 

O  sun  of  Judah,  veil  thy  stricken  face  ! 

O  graves,  give  forth  your  olden,  saintly  dead ; 
O  temple  veil,  in  sunder  rent,  give  place 

To  His  new  temple  of  the  heart  and  life  ! 

Past  is  the  awful  strife  ; 

The  sacrifice  complete ; 
At  morning,  where  the  angel  hosts  have  led 

To  His  dear  tomb,  prepare  your  King  to  greet ! 


THE    CHRISTIAN   YEAR. 


THE    ANNUNCIATION    OF    THE    BLESSED 
VIRGIN    MARY. 

By  M.  A.  T. 

THROUGH  the  sins  and  sorrows 
Of  four  thousand  years, 
Earth  has  watched  and  waited, 

Smiling  through  her  tears  ; 
Watched  to  greet  the  dawning 

Of  a  brighter  morn ; 
Waited  for  a  Saviour, 
Man,  of  woman  born. 

Now  the  blessed  Dayspring 

Cometh  from  on  high  ; 
Now  the  world's  Redeemer, 

To  her  aid  draws  nigh  ; 
Bearer  of  the  tidings, 

From  the  throne  of  light, 
To  a  lowly  maiden, 

Speeds  an  angel  bright. 

In  the  chosen  daughter 

Of  King  David's  line, 
God  fulfils  the  promise 

Of  King  Ahaz'  sign. 
Gabriel  hath  spoken ; 

Mary  hath  believed; 
And,  behold,  a  virgin 

Hath  a  Son  conceived ! 

Earthly  sire  He  hath  not; 

For  the  promised  rod 
Of  the  stem  of  Jesse 

Is  the  Son  of  God ; 
6 


LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Virgin  pure  the  temple 
Where  He  lies  enshrined, 

Holy  One  of  Jacob. 
Hope  of  all  mankind  ! 

Though  He  take  our  nature. 

Linked  to  low  estate. 
Though  He  stoop  to  suffer, 

Yet  shall  He  be  great: 
Though  His  crown  and  sceptre 

Be  of  thorn  and  reed ; 
His  shall  be  the  kingdom, 

Sworn  to  David's  seed. 

Light  to  lighten  the  Gentiles 

Bending  at  His  throne  : 
Glory  of  His  people, 

When  His  sway  they  own. 
He  shall  reign  forever, 

King  of  kings  confessed  ; 
And  all  tribes  and  kindreds 

Shall,  in  Him,  be  blest. 

Through  the  brightened  ages. 

O'er  the  ransomed  earth, 
All  shall  bless  and  honor 

Her  who  gave  Him  birth  ; 
Her  of  whom,  incarnate, 

Came  the  Lord  of  all, 
To  uplift  creation 

From  the  primal  fall. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  83 

THE    ANNUNCIATION. 
By  William  B.  Chisholm. 

HAIL  !  beauteous  Mother  !     Hail ! 
Wealth  and  bloom  we  bring  to  thee, 
Ere  yet  the  wondrous  tale 
Rings  over  earth  and  sea, 
Blest  be  thou,  o'er  all  earth's  daughters  blest ! 
Gladly  now  our  hearts  proclaim  Annunciation's  feast. 

Upon  thy  virgin  brow 

Sits  innocence  enthroned  ; 
And  motherhood's  sweet  presence  now 
Its  lighter  lines  have  toned ; 
Thou  hast  no  jasper  palace  trod  nor  unveiled  glories  seen  ; 
Yet  o'er  thee  rests  the  aureole  of  heaven's  unstinted  sheen. 

Hail !  fair  Madonna  !     Hail ! 

O'er  all  thy  sisterhood, 
Transcendent  image  of  the  true, 
The  beautiful,  the  good  ; 
All  generations  shall  rise  up  and  welcome  thee  the  blest, 
As  in  the  holy  calendar  that  heralds  thy  high  feast. 


THE    LORD    IS    RISEN. 
By  J.  J.  L.  England. 

OUR   hearts  with  bitter  grief  were  sad 
But  yesterday  ; 
This  morn  rejoicing  they  are  glad, 
For  Christ  hath  risen  from  the  dead, 
And  Death  and  Hell  are  captive  led ! 

The  sealed  stone  before  the  tomb 

Is  rolled  away  ! 
Light  piercing  through  its  deepest  gloom 
Reveals  no  captive  in  that  prison, 
For  lo  !  the  Lord  of  Life  hath  risen  ! 

Where  now  thy  victory.  O  Grave  ? 
Or,  Death,  thy  sting? 
Jesus  with  mighty  power  to  save, 
He  Who  on  yonder  cross  was  slain. 
Hath  risen  from  the  dead  again ! 


Shout,  all  ye  glad  angelic  throng, 

And  mortals  too  ! 
Join  ye  in  one  triumphant  song, 
The  Lord  hath  risen  from  the  dead  ! 
The  Lord  hath  risen  as  He  said ! 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  85 

Wide  let  the  glorious  anthem  roll, 

In  loud  acclaim  ! 
Circling  the  earth  from  pole  to  pole, 
Till  far  and  wide  the  tidings  spread, 
The  Lord  hath  risen  from  the  dead ! 


EASTER    MORN. 
By  Amelia  Truesdell. 

CHRIST'S  woe  is  done  !     Let  Easter  sun 
Shout  "glorias  "  to  the  morn  ! 
For  now  on  earth  in  second  birth 
The  Promised  One  is  born. 

The  smitten  grave  its  Prisoner  gave, 
Nor  dares  to  claim  Him — -dead; 

For  glory  shone  on  virgin  stone 
Where  lay  tlv  anointed  Head. 

The  purple  scorn,  the  plaited  thorn, 

For  Him  beloved  are  o'er ; 
The  hour  of  gloom,  the  cry  of  doom, 

Shall  bow  the  heavens  no  more. 

From  seraph  throngs  grand  Easter  songs 
Ring  out  through  all  the  spheres  ; 

For  now  is  done  the  work  begun 
In  Judah's  vale  of  tears. 

Then  bind  the  cross  with  softest  moss, 
And  wreathe  with  garlands  round  : 

Put  lilies  fair  in  chaplets  where 
That  radiant  head  was  bound. 


86  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVIXG   CHURCH. 

Aye.  sing  on  earth  this  heavenly  birth, 

That  all  shall  live  who  died, 
That  Christ  has  risen,  that  Death's  dark  prison 

His  form  has  glorified. 

And  answer  loud,  ye  faithful  "  cloud 

Of  witnesses  "  above  : 
Low  at  his  feet  the  song  repeat 

Of  Jesus"  Easter  love. 


EASTER    THOUGHTS. 
Bv  the  Rev.  W.  E.  Snowden. 

IN  the  spring  morn  the  Easter  bells 
From  town  and  hamlet  tower. 
Cathedral  domes  and  lowly  dells, 

Their  joyous  anthems  pour. 
Ring  out.  ye  bells,  your  cantinells  ! 

Air,  with  the  music  quiver ! 
Christ  in  the  tomb  no  longer  dwells  ; 
He  lives  and  reigns  forever. 

All  the  wide  air  is  full  of  sound, 

Rejoicing,  triumphing  ; 
The  hills  give  back  the  glad  rebound, 

The  Easter  carolling. 
The  teeming  earth  looks  up  to-day 

To  greet  her  risen  Lord  : 
The  buds  swell  and  the  year's  decay 

Lives  at  His  quickening  word. 

As  erst  in  Bethany  He  stood 

Beside  the  silent  tomb, 
His  voice  gave  life  its  plenitude 

Within  that  darkened  room, 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  87 

So  ever  in  His  universe, 

In  all  the  bounds  of  time, 
All  things  His  living  power  rehearse 

And  feel  His  life  sublime. 

Because  He  lives  they  also  live, 

Because  He  rose  they  rise. 
Each  spring  each  flower  their  virtues  give, 

And  Easter  prophecies. 
The  ice,  the  winter's  frozen  breath, 

A  living  flood  shall  be, 
Springing  exulting  from  its  death 

And  sparkling  to  the  sea. 

The  sleep  that  lies,  a  lethal  veil, 

On  man  from  eve  till  morn 
Is  broken  by  the  sun's  "  All  hail !  " 

We  rise,  to  life  reborn. 
The  showy  plant  in  all  its  pride 

Fell  with  the  year's  decay  . 
Root  hid  in  earth  and  seed  that  died 

Now  feel  the  Easter  ray; 

And  lo  !  a  fairer,  other  growth, 

Other  and  yet  the  same, 
Risen  from  earth  in  glorious  youth, 

Shall  Easter  truth  proclaim. 
The  chrysalis  in  loathly  shell 

Its  poor  dull  life  lays  down  ; 
We  seek  its  dead  within  that  cell,  — 

"  'T  is  not  there  ;  "  it  has  flown  ! 

A  butterfly,  with  plumage  bright, 

It  swims  in  upper  air 
From  the  dark  prison  of  its  night, 

And  keeps  its  Easter  there. 
The  chrysalis  to  death  is  given, 

The  shell  bursts,  and  a  thing 
Of  beauty  scales  the  airs  of  heaven 

With  never-tiring  wing. 


S3  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

THE    BLESSED    MORN. 
By  R.  L.  Argent. 

FROM  sin's  dark,  gloomy  prison-house  we  rise 
Into  the  freedom  of  a  purer  air,  — 
A  freedom  none  of  earthly  mould  may  share 
Save  who  have  offered  willing  sacrifice 
Of  self  and  sense. 

From  dreams  of  doubt  and  darkness  we  awake 
To  see  the  lamps  of  hope  and  joy  alight,  — 
To  view  the  world  in  rarer  raiment  dight 

And  feel,  as  we  of  heaven's  grace  partake. 
New  life  from  thence. 

The  Easter  sunlight  floods  earth's  utmost  length, 
The  Easter  blooms  make  all  ways  fragrant-fair. 
The  Easter  bells  proclaim  upon  the  air,  — 

"  All  Easter  blessings  flow  from  Him,  our  strength 
And  our  defence  !  " 


EASTER   SOXG. 
By  Annie  Ellicott. 

BIRD  in  the  zenith,  airily  circling. 
Why  upward  thy  flight  and  so  joyful  thy  lay  ? 
Cometh  the  answer,  thrilling  with  rapture, 

"  The  Saviour  hath  risen  !     'T  is  Easter  to-day  !  " 

Flowers,  the  woodland  gemming  so  brightly, 

Why  waken  ye  now  ?     "T  will  be  long  'ere  't  is  May 

Wind-bent,  the  blossoms  joyfully  murmur, 

"  The  Saviour  hath  risen  !     'T  is  Easter  to-dav!  " 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  89 


Breezes,  why  blow  ye,  so  softly,  so  gently  ? 

Why  linger  not  here  with  the  grasses  to  play  ? 
"  Hymns  from  the  earth  to  heaven  we  are  wafting 

The  Saviour  hath  risen  !     'T  is  Easter  to-day  !  " 


Soul,  when  the  birds,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  breezes 
Praises  are  singing,  earth-bound  will  you  stay  ? 

Join  in  the  anthem  that  rises  to  heaven. 

';  The  Saviour  hath  risen  !     'T  is  Easter  to-day  !  " 


AN    EASTER    SONG. 
By  Callie  L.  Boxney. 

IN   shade  of  death  the  world  doth  sleep, 
While  white-robed  angels  vigils  keep 
O'er  stone-bound  tomb ; 
And  night-winds  whisper  requiem  low, 
While  shadowy  forms  flit  to  and  fro 
'Mid  cypress  gloom. 

When  lo  !  a  heavenly  radiance  falls, 
Reflected  from  the  jasper  walls, 

Where  pearl-gate  gleams  : 
The  heavy  stone  is  rolled  away, 
While  dawning  resurrection  day 

With  glory  teems. 

No  more  the  cypress  and  the  tomb, 
WThere  now  immortal  flowers  bloom, 

Bright,  fair,  alway : 
Life's  King,  in  majesty  divine, 
Makes  resurrection  blessing  thine, 

On  Easter  Day. 


"IT  IS  THE  LORD'S  PASSOVER.'1 
By  the  Rev.  Eli  Chrysostom  Burr. 

ALL  hail,  dear  Risen  Lord  !  all  hail ! 
'Tis  past,  the  grave,  the  cross,  the  nail ; 
'Tis  past,  the  breaking  hearts,  the  wail  ; 
Alleluia ! 

All  hail,  dear  Risen  Lord  !  no  trace 
Of  Calvary's  woe  hath  marred  Thy  face. 
All  hail !  Redeemer  of  our  race  ! 
Alleluia  ! 

We  sought  Thy  grave,  and  angels  cried  : 
"Ye  seek  Him  who  was  crucified; 
Behold  !  He  is  risen,  glorified." 
Alleluia ! 


On  Friday,  —  darkness,  death,  the  tomb  ! 
To-day,  — light,  life,  and  Paschal  bloom  ! 
The  Risen  Christ  hath  chased  the  gloom. 
Alleluia  ! 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  91 

The  new-born  earth,  in  spring  array, 
With  full,  adoring  love  doth  pray 
Beneath  Thy  nail-pierced  feet  to-day. 

Alleluia  ! 

"What  mean  ye  by  this  service?  "  cries 
The  wondering  world  ;  the  Church  replies  : 
"  It  is  the  Lord  Christ's  Sacrifice." 
Alleluia  ! 

Angels  who  throng  the  starry  ways 
Take  up  the  glorious  strain  we  raise, 
And  Heaven's  foundations  shake  with  praise. 
Alleluia ! 


EASTER. 
By  Edward  Hyacinth  Tottenham. 

NOW  does  old  hoary  winter,  faltering, 
Retrace  his  footprints  to  the  icy  North  ; 
And  many  a  guerdon  of  long-wished-for  Spring 
O'er  hill  and  dale  is  gently  budding  forth. 

But  yesterday  the  solemn  Lenten  fast 

Did  bow  the  head  and  make  the  bright  eye  dim 

So  has  the  Lenten  Miserere  passed 
To  the  fair  lustre  of  the  Easter  hymn. 

We  live  two  lives  upon  this  little  earth,  — 
One  life  around  us,  and  one  life  above  : 

Flowers,  and  birds,  and  our  immortal  souls, 
Are  all  controlled  by  one  hand  of  love. 

Chase  then  thy  cares  ;  and  with  untiring  wing, 
Fly  with  thy  sins  to  Jesus'  wounded  side  : 

So  shall  thy  life  be  one  perpetual  Spring, 
Thy  death,  an  everlasting  Easter-tide. 


92  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

AN    EASTER   HYMN. 
By  the  Rev.  H.  G.  Batterson,  D.  D. 

ALLELUIA !  Alleluia  ! 
Alleluia  sing  to-day ! 
Christ  has  opened  death's  dark  prison, 

Bright  the  tomb  wherein  He  lay. 
Sing  with  gladness.  Alleluia  ! 
He  has  brought  Eternal  day. 

Sing,  ye  Christians,  Alleluia  ! 

Darkness  from  the  grave  hath  fled ; 
Sing  ye  joyous  Alleluia  ! 

Christ  is  now  our  King  and  Head  ; 
Lift  your  song  with  thankful  voices, 

He  is  risen  from  the  dead  ! 

Sing,  all  nations.  Alleluia  ! 

Christ  is  victor  o'er  the  grave  ; 
Sing  again  loud  Alleluia  ! 

He  has  passed  through  Jordan's  wave  ; 
Oh,  how  glorious  is  the  triumph  ! 

He  is  mighty  now  to  save  ! 

Sing  once  more  the  Alleluia  ! 

In  this  happy  Easter-tide  ; 
Sing,  undaunted,  Alleluia  ! 

Now  is  healed  the  Wounded  Side  : 
Christ,  of  death  the  First-Begotten, 

Is  our  Brother.  Friend,  and  Guide. 

Bring  the  lilies,  bring  the  roses, 
Let  the  altar  gleam  with  light ; 

Shout  with  rapture,  Alleluia  ! 

Christ  has  conquered  death  and  night ; 

He,  our  Paschal  Lamb,  will  feed  us, 
Guard  us,  keep  us,  in  His  might ! 


THE  CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  93 

BRIGHT    EASTER    SKIES. 
By  the  Rt.  Rev.  Alex.  Burgess,  D.D. 


B1 


RIGHT   Easter  skies! 
Fair  Easter  skies  ! 

Our  Lord  is  risen ; 

We  too  shall  rise. 
Nor  walls  of  stone  hewn  firm  and  cold, 
Nor  Roman  soldiers  brave  and  bold, 
Nor  Satan's  marshalled  hosts  could  keep 
The  pierced  hands  in  deathly  sleep  ; 
Just  as  the  Easter  day-beams  dawn 
Our  buried  Lord  is  risen  and  gone  ! 

Loud  Easter  bells ! 

Rich  Easter  bells  ! 

A  ransomed  world 

Your  chiming  tells. 
Let  hills  and  rocks  your  gladness  peal ! 
Behold  the  stone  and  broken  seal ! 
Angels^in  white  from  heaven's  bright  way 
The  useless  clothes  together  lay, 
Then  sit  serene  at  head  and  feet 
The  earliest  saints  with  joy  to  greet. 

Green  Easter  fields! 

Fair  Easter  fields ! 

Heaven's  first  ripe  fruit 

Death  conquered  yields 
In  churchyards  wide  the  seeds  we  sow ; 
Beneath  the  Cross  the  wheat  shall  grow : 
One  Easter  Day  Death's  reign  shall  end, 
And  golden  sheaves  shall  heavenward  send. 
Hail  the  blest  morn,  by  whose  glad  light 
Angels  shall  reap  the  harvest  white  ! 


94  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH 

Sweet  Easter  flowers  ! 

White  Easter  flowers! 

From  heaven  descend 

Life-giving  showers. 
Each  plant  that  bloomed  at  Eden's  birth 
Shall  blow  again  o'er  ransomed  earth. 
Pluck  lilies  rare  and  roses  sweet, 
And  strew  the  path  of  Jesus'  feet ; 
Throw  fragrant  palms  before  our  King, 
And  wreathe  the  crown  the  saved  shall  bring! 

O  Christian  child  ! 

O  Christian  men ! 

Our  Victor  Lord 

Shall  come  again. 
Wake  we  our  hearts  at  His  command ; 
Lift  we  our  love  to  His  right  hand  : 
With  warmest  hopes,  to  Easter  skies, 
Stretch  we  our  arms  and  fix  our  eyes  ; 
Till  in  the  clouds  His  sign  we  see, 
And  quick  and  dead  shout  jubilee  !  - 


0 

THE    GENTLE    STRANGER. 

By  the  Rev.  R.  W.  Lowrie,  D.D. 

ALONG  Judea's  twilight  way 
The  two  communed  with  bated  breath. 
Three  days  had  lapsed,  with  rayless  skies, 
Since  Jesus'  death. 


The  while  to  sober  language  given, 
A  gentle  Stranger  draws  Him  near ; 

But  eye  was  blind ;  His  usual  voice, 
Nor  heard  the  ear. 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  95 

In  accents  mild  and  musical, 
The  Stranger,  as  they  walked  apace : 

"  What  converse  this  that  hold  ye  twain  ? 
Why  sad  of  face  ?  " 

Then  answered  Cleopas,  and  said : 

"  A  Stranger  art  Thou  in  the  land, 
And  knowest  not  the  grievous  things 

At  present  hand  ?  " 

Then  all  the  Scriptures,  as  they  went, 

Of  Moses,  and  of  prophets  old, 
In  full  recital,  wondrous  plain, 

The  Stranger  told. 

And  now  have  Emmaus'  lamps,  like  stars, 

Shone  softly  thro'  the  even-tide; 
The  Stranger  hastens  ;  but  they  said  : 

"  With  us  abide." 

Delaying  at  their  sweet  request, 

The  Stranger  sat  Him  down  at  meat ; 

And  bread  He  took,  and  blessed  and  brake. 
And  gave  to  eat. 

Their  eyes  no  longer  holden  were, 
For  fell  the  scales  from  off  the  sight ; 

But  scarce  they  knew  the  Lord,  until 
He  vanished  quite  ! 

"  Did  not  our  hearts  within  us  burn, 

As  never  burned  our  hearts  before, 
The  while  He  opened,  by  the  way, 

The  Sacred  Lore  ?  " 


And,  lo,  with  steps  retraced,  they  tell 
The  wondrous  things  the  Stranger  sai( 

And  how  the  Risen  Lord  was  known. 
In  breaking  bread ! 


i)6  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

THE    CONVERSION    OF    THE    CENTURION. 
(The  Day  after  the  Resurrection.) 

By  the  Rt.  Rev.  W.  E.  McLaren,  D.D.,  D.C.L. 

THOU  say'st  He  is  arisen?  that  Nazarene 
Whom  they  did  roughly  crown  with  thorns,  whose 
side 
I  pierced  with  this  good  spear  of  mine,  alive  ? 
By- Mars.  I  marvel  at  thy  word.     Go  to, 
Thou  trembling  subject  of  a  vanquished  king  ! 
Nor  mock  me  with  thy  story  of  a  death 
That  was  not  death,  a  tomb  that  was  no  tomb ; 
Thy  grief  to  folly  hath  transformed  thy  wit 
And  made  thee  babble.     Mock  me  not,  O  Jew ! 

And  yet  do  I  remember  all  that  scene, 

The  evening  of  your  Sabbath,  when  He  died. 

A  shudder  ran  through  nature,  rocks  were  rent, 

And  it  is  whispered  that  your  temple's  veil 

Was  cleft  in  twain,  and  the  black  heavens  frowned, 

As  if  one  of  the  immortal  gods  had  died. 

I  am  a  man  of  blood,  these  eyes  have  gazed 
On  many  a  crucifixion  of  the  unjust ; 
These  ears  have  heard  their  cries  of  agony  ; 
And,  truth  to  say,  this  heart  familiar  grown 
With  death,  has  lost  the  natural  tenderness 
Of  man.     But  ne'er  saw  I  a  death  like  His, 
Which  made  that  heart  a  woman's,  soft  with  flow 
Of  sympathetic  grief.     Give  me  thine  ear, 
For  I  am  burdened  with  emotions  strange, 
Nor  can  their  hidden  meaning  comprehend. 

My  men  had  raised  Him  on  the  painful  wood, 
And,  as  we  use,  had  gambled  for  His  robe; 
When,  with  a  pitiful  voice  He  cried  aloud 
To  One  whom  we  saw  not.     "  Father,"  He  said, 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  97 

"  Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  !  " 

It  struck  me  to  the  depths.     I  could  not  deem 

This  man  was  worthy  of  the  cruel  strokes 

Of  Roman  hammers  on  our  sharpen'd  nails, 

Nor  of  the  deadlier  thrust  of  priestly  scorn 

And  bitter  piercing  of  Sanhedrim  hate. 

What  manner  of  man  is  this  —  such  was  my  thought  — 

Who  answers  ribald  mockings  with  a  prayer, 

And  mingles  pardons  with  His  dropping  blood  ? 

Three  hours  He  hung  upon  the  cross  —  three  hours 
Of  sharper  agony  than  tongue  can  tell, 
Three  hours,  O  Jew,  made  beautiful  with  love. 
He  pardoned  us,  He  comforted  a  thief, 
He  blessed  three  women  standing  close  with  one 
Whose  moan  revealed  a  mother's  bleeding  heart, 
Pierced  with  a  keener  sword  than  this  I  wear. 
One  day,  at  Vesta's  shrine  in  Rome,  I  saw  — 
Her  veil  withdrawn  —  a  virgin-priestess'  face, 
Too  fair,  I  thought,  for  eyes  like  mine  to  see  ; 
I  tell  thee,  Jew,  more  beautiful  than  she 
Was  that  sad  woman  wailing  at  the  cross. 
May  Vesta  soothe  her  ! 

At  the  hour  of  noon 
Thick  darkness  crept  upon  Jerusalem 
And  rested  thickest  on  Golgotha's  height. 
Loud-voiced  the  sufferer  on  Elias  called, 
Who  came  not.     With  our  soldier's  wine  we  sought, 
Lifting  a  hyssop-stem,  to  quench  his  thirst, 
And  all  the  earth  seem'd  trembling  with  despair. 
Then  Jesus  bowed  His  head  and  died.     O'erwhelmed 
I  cried :  In  truth  He  was  a  son  of  God  ! 

What  frenzy  hath  o'ercome  thy  nation,  Jew, 
That  they  invoke  such  blood  upon  their  heads  — 
The  blood  of  one  so  innocent,  so  good  ? 
Oh,  had  our  Pilate  known  this  godlike  man 
As  I  do  seem  to  know,  he  ne'er  had  bid 
My  band  to  do  this  awful  deed. 
7 


98  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING  CHURCH. 

Alive? 
Thou  say'st  He  is  alive?  His  sepulchre 
Untenanted  ?     What  means  this  whisper'd  tale 
Of  magic  sages  never  dreamed  could  be  ? 
They  tell  us  death  is  not  the  end  of  life, 
And  I,  though  rude  in  speech,  unskilled  in  thought, 
Have  in  my  simpler  way  attained  the  height 
Of  their  philosophy  :  for  how  can  man 
Deny  the  immortal  longings  of  his  soul, 
Or  deem  the  arch  of  life  to  rest  alone 
Upon  the  column  that  we  see.     Beyond  — 
'T  is  thus  I  argue  —  stands  the  other  shaft 
Built  on  the  Eternal  Rock.     But  who  dare  dream 
That  they  who  pass  can  evermore  return  ? 

If  e'er  by  favor  of  the  immortal  gods 

One  perished  body  were  to  burst  its  tomb, 

I  could  imagine  this  strong  Son  of  God, 

This  king  of  thine,  might  win  the  awful  boon, — 

He  was  so  noble  !  on  His  brow  was  set 

The  signet  of  a  soul  so  unearthly  pure  ! 

If  my  unwilling  spear,  obedient 

To  stern  command  of  law,  pierc'd  my  own  side 

With  sharper  pang  than  his,  if  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  sixth  hour  I  curs*d  my  fate  that  I, 

A  sinful  man,  could  not  this  hero  save, 

I  think  the  Pitiful  Ones  who  dwell  above 

Would  bend  to  listen  to  His  dying  cry 

And  by  some  portent  justify  His  prayer. 

Yea,  if,  indignant  grown,  the  onlooking  powers 

Should  give  him  back  what  Hebrew  malice  took. 

And  if  the  "  Father*1  God.  on  whom  He  called. 

Should  bid  corruption's  worm  to  touch  Him  not, 

I  could  believe  it  —  will  believe  it  true. 

Perchance,  —  is  't  not  a  thought,  O  Jew.  to  thrill 

Our  souls?  —  perchance  this  man  was  more  than  man, 

A  god  come  down  to  show  some  better  way 

For  men  to  live  that  live,  for  men  that  die 

To  die,  —  a  god  more  strong  than  life,  than  death, 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR. 

Than  the  all-conquering  grave.     Perchance 

This  messenger  of  better  things  shall  speak 

When  Pan  is  dead  and  Jupiter  himself 

Shall  lose  his  grasp  on  thunderbolts  of  wrath  ; 

'T  is  said  our  oracles  grow  dumb  ;  and  I 

Have  heard  prophetic  whispers,  speeding  far 

O'er  all  the  empire,  that  a  new  age  comes  — 

Another  chapter  in  Time's  fateful  book. 

It  may  be  true.     Nay,  by  my  heart's  strange  leap, 

I  cannot  choose  but  hail  the  better  day, 

Brought  nigh  by  Him  who  died  and  rose  again. 

Lead  me,  O  Jew,  where  I  may  worship  Him  — 
Brother  of  mine,  oh,  lead  me  to  the  spot 
Where  we  may  learn  more  of  that  Father-love, 
Of  holy  pardon  and  the  immortal  life, 
Of  death  that  is  not  death,  of  graves  where  we 
Shall  only  sleep  a  little  while  ! 

No  more 
Relentless  Mars,  spear-armed,  dare  I  invoke  — 
Before  the  Conqueror  of  Death  I  bow  ! 


99 


IOO  LYRICS  OF   THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 


THE   ASCENSION. 
By  the  Rev.  C.  W.  Leffingwell,  D.D. 

LIFT  up  your  heads,  O  gates  !     Be  lifted  high, 
Ye  everlasting  portals  of  the  sky  ! 
The  King,  in  glorious  majesty  draws  nigh  ! 

He  comes  with  power,  who  lived  on  earth  unknown, 
Despised  by  men.  rejected  by  His  own : 
He  comes,  a  King,  victorious  to  His  throne. 


The  Lord  ascends  !  His  work  on  earth  is  done 
The  Lord  ascends!  His  reign  in  Heaven  begur 
Mis  people  ransomed  and  His  kingdom  won. 


Sing,  O  ye  heavens  !  Be  joyful  all  ye  lands  ! 
O  all  ye  people,  shout,  and  clap  your  hands  ! 
High  over  all  the  King  of  Glory  stands ! 

Who  is  the  King  of  glory?     Even  He, 

The  Lord  of  Hosts,  who  evermore  shall  be !  — 

The  risen  Lord,  who  ruleth  land  and  sea  ! 

O  earth,  rejoice !     Ye  isles  thereof,  be  glad  ! 
O  suffering  world,  so  long  oppressed  and  sad, 
Behold  your  King,  in  strength  and  beauty  clad  ! 

Behold  your  King,  though  passed  from  human  sight,  — 
By  faith  behold  Him,  —  where  in  regal  might, 
He  comes,  a  conqueror,  to  His  throne  of  light! 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  gates  !     Wide  open  swing, 
Ye  doors  of  Heaven  !     While  men  and  angels  sing 
A  loud  hosanna  to  the  glorious  King  ! 


THE   CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  ioi 

THE    ASCENSION. 
By  W.  B.  Chisholm. 

TO  rise,  O  Lord,  with  Thee,  — 
To  leave  low  earth,  its  sorrows  and  its  joys, 
Wearied  with  toilsome  sport,  with  fleeting  toys, 
Fain  to  ascend  where  angel's  harp  employs 
Its  sweetest  note  to  sing  Thy  glorious  praise.  ^ 
Behold,  O  Lord,  worn  with  these  dusty  ways, 
I  would  ascend  with  Thee  ! 

But  I  must  grovel  here,  yet  see  Thee  go ; 
Yearn,  with  fast-dimming  gaze,  as  up  the  track 
Of  yonder  sky  Thy  bright  ascension  shows 
To  my  sad  feet  their  feebleness.  —  no  wings. 
Naught,  naught  but  grief  and  vexedness,  below, — 
Yet  hear  the  gentle  mandate  hastening  back, 
All  fraught  with  soul-reviving  cheer, 

"  Press  on ! 
The  path  of  pain  and  toil  is  still  the  way  ; 
Bide  on  the  heavenly  promise,  —  breaks  the  day." 

But,  Lord,  I  weary  grow  ! 
I  see  bright-vested  angels  girt  to  wait 
Around  Thy  kingly  feast,  still  hard  and  late 
I  toil  for  grace.     Yet  passion  charms  to  sin  ; 
And  sin  to  death  will  drag.     Can  I  not  go? 
Is  this  Thy  will,  —  this  lonely  walk  below  ? 

"  Yes,  restless  heart,  believe  thou.  —  but  believe  ! 
When  I  am  ready  thou  shalt  hear  thy  call. 
Keep  faithful  fast !     Anon  the  festival 
Shall  peal  its  bells  for  thee.     Nor  grieve 
That  e'en  the  friend  thou  lov'st  most  dear  must  go 
Before  thy  soul's  release ;  abide  below 
All  dutiful  and  murmurless.     Ere  long 
My  voice  shall  bid  thee  join  the  holy  throng  !" 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  1 03 

WHITSUNTIDE    LILIES. 
By  N.  M.  Hitchcock. 

RING  out  your  dainty  bells,  ye  lilies  of  the  valley 
With  tender  grace  ! 
With  loveliness  most  fit  adorn  the  font,  the  altar, 
The  holy  place  ! 

Ring  out  your  tender  bells,  ye  quivering,  wind-blown  lilies, 

While  we  rejoice 
In  Him  who  comes  alike  in  rushing  wind  and  mighty, 

And  still  small  voice  ! 

Ring  out  your  bells  so  pure,  ye  fair,  ye  snowy  lilies ! 

The  Holy  Dove, 
To  make  our  hearts  as  white  and  to  present  us  spotless, 

Comes  from  above, 

Ring  out  your  chalice-bells,  ye  incense-wafting  lilies  !. 

Your  perfumed  breath 
Shall  tell  of  offering  pure  from  hearts  the  Spirit's  pleading 

Has  waked  from  death. 

Ring  out  your  blessed  bells,  ye  Pentecostal  lilies  ! 

The  Paraclete, 
The  Comforter  is  come !     Oh,  be  our  hearts  his  dwelling, 

His  temple  meet. 


104  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING  CHURCH. 

THANKSGIVING    HYMN. 
By  the  Rev.  John  Axketell. 

GOD  of  our  fathers,  enthroned  through  all  ages. 
Ever  in  mercy  and  kindness  revealed. 
Guard  us  in  peace  :  and  when  war's  tumult  rages 
Be  Thou  our  helmet,  our  sword,  and  our  shield. 

Through  the  long  years  Thou  hast  granted  us  blessing. 

Filling  our  homes  with  the  light  of  Thy  grace  : 
Let  us  as  children,  Thy  love  still  possessing, 

Ever  rejoice  in  the  smile  of  Thy  face. 

When  the  fierce  tempest  around  us  is  raving. 
Let  the  wild  storm  be  restrained  by  Thy  will.  — 

As  on  the  lake,  where  the  white  crests  were  waving 
O'er  the  rough  billows.  Thy  voice  cried,  "  Be  still !  " 

Crown  our  broad  prairies  with  sheaves  rich  and  golden. 

Fill  all  our  dwellings  with  plenty  and  health  •, 
Let  our  fair  children,  as  in  the  days  olden, 

Find  in  Thy  blessing  their  joy  and  their  wealth. 

Still  with  Thy  wisdom  our  senators  guiding. 

Grant  to  our  warriors  a  heart  brave  and  true  ; 
O'er  the  wide  ocean  let  proud  navies  riding 

Show  to  the  nations  our  Red.  White,  and  Blue. 

Guard  well  our  Union  unmoved  and  unshaken  ; 

Love  be  the  bond  that  shall  bind  us  as  one. 
Safe  is  our  trust,  by  Thine  arm  unforsaken; 

Shine  on  us  ever.  Eternity's  Sun. 

God  of  our  fathers,  enthroned  through  all  ages, 
Low  at  Thy  footstool  our  homage  we  yield ; 

Guard  us  in  peace  :  and  when  fierce  battle  rages 
Be  Thou  our  helmet,  our  sword,  and  our  shield. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  105 

ALL    SAINTS'    DAY. 
By  Katherine  A.  Matthew. 

OUR  year  wanes  fast ;  and  the  rain-drops  fall, 
As  though  Nature  were  tired  and  grieving ; 
The  pale  sun  shines  through  a  golden  mist 
On  the  scenes  it  will  soon  be  leaving. 

Our  hearts  beat  slowly,  life's  pulses  chill, 
Looking  back  on  the  year  departed,  — 

The  year  that  we  met  in  its  Easter  joy, 
Faithful  and  happy-hearted. 

Now  slowly  and  solemnly  over  our  heads 

The  All-Saints'  bells  are  swinging ; 
And  our  hands  are  folded  for  purer  prayer 

While  the  heavenward  chime  is  ringing. 

Into  her  wide,  kind,  loving  arms, 

The  Church  our  Mother,  enfolding, 
Comforting,  bids  us  lift  our  eyes, 

New  life,  new  joys,  beholding. 

Her  year  wanes  too ;  and  her  message  sweet 

Lies  soft  on  our  hearts'  complaining, 
Like  the  gentle  grace  of  the  summer  glow 

On  the  fair,  clear  sky  remaining. 

"  Let  the  dead  past  be  dead  ! "  she  breathes, 

"  Child  of  my  love  unfailing 
Look  on  to  the  light  of  the  Advent  morn  ' 

Faith  is  not  unavailing." 

"  Ah  !  but  our  souls  are  stained  with  sin 

For  which  there  is  no  forgiving,  — 
Promises  broken,  neglected  vows, 

And  life's  unworthiest  living.'* 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  107 

"  For  ye,  tired  children,  sorrowful  ones, 
The  message  is  ever  given,  — 
Pardon  and  Love  again  and  again 
Till  your  sins'  last  chain  is  riven. 

"  Pray  —  for  the  Master  will  come  full  soon  ; 

Watch  —  for  his  reappearing  ; 
Trust  —  for  His  word  is  ever  true  ; 

Hope  —  for  the  skies  are  clearing. 

"  Into  the  glorious  Advent  light, 
Solemn  and  steadfast  shining, 
Lift  up  your  hearts,  —  be  strong,  be  true, 
Work,  love,  trust,  unrepining ; 

"  For  the  saints,  whose  glorious  lives  ye  read, 
Sinned  too,  and  were  God-forgiven,  — 

Finished  their  work  and  kept  the  faith  ; 
And  for  them  the  rest  of  Heaven." 


ALL    SAINTS'    DAY. 
By  the  Rev.  M.  Lindsay  Kellner. 

FOR  all  Thy  Saints  in  Paradise,  the  bless'd, 
Whose  footsteps  once  these  pilgrim  pathways  pressed, 
Who  have  attained  to  Thy  dear  land  of  rest, 
Alleluia!  Lord,  to  Thee. 

For  Thine  Apostles,  guileless,  eager,  bold, 
Who  truly  shepherded  their  Master's  fold  ; 
For  Martyrs  dying  for  the  crown  foretold, 
Alleluia  !  Lord,  to  Thee. 

For  Thine  Evangelists,  with  heavenly  might, 
By  Holy  Ghost  inspired  the  Word  to  write, 
Mid  earth's  dark  skies  the  one,  the  hallowed  Light, 
Alleluia  !  Lord,  to  Thee. 


108  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

For  God-sent  Priests,  who  taught  their  fellow-men 
To  love  Thy  precepts,  from  their  sins  refrain, 
And  turned  their  wayward  steps  to  Thee  again, 
Alleluia  !  Lord,  to  Thee. 

For  saintly  Fathers,  who  have  crossed  the  flood, 
And  left  these  wear)-  ways  which  once  they  trod, 
Whose  souls  undying  now  are  with  their  God, 
Alleluia!  Lord,  to  Thee. 

For  gentle  Mothers,  home  divinely  led, 
Whose  angel-faces  smiling  bend  to  shed 
A  benediction  on  their  children's  head, 
Alleluia  !  Lord,  to  Thee. 

For  these,  a  glorious  band  forever  bless'd, 
The  Church  triumphant,  Church  with  Thee  at  rest, 
Forever  through  the  ages  be  addressed 
Alleluia  !  Lord,  to  Thee. 


WITHIN    THE    VEIL. 
By  N.  M.  Hitchcock. 

WHEN  the  autumn's  glowing  splendor 
Softens  in  the  haze  so  tender 
Of  the  Indian-summer  skies, 
Then  my  soul,  her  eyes  upraising, 
Through  the  veil  would  fain  be  gazing 
On  the  hills  of  Paradise. 

For  the  Church  now  tells  the  story 
Of  the  blessed  ones  in  glory, 

Tasting  joys  that  never  fail ; 
Of  the  multitude  unnumbered, 
Who,  no  more  by  cares  encumbered, 

Dwell  with  Christ  within  the  veil. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  109 

Purple  tints  are  softly  gleaming 
On  the  hills  ;  and,  to  my  seeming, 

At  this  holy  All-Saints'  tide, 
Through  the  mists  come  faintly  swelling 
Strains  of  sweetest  music,  telling 
How  the  saints  in  glory  dwelling 

Join  to  praise  the  Crucified. 

Earth  grows  dim  and  Heaven  seems  nearer; 
To  faith's  vision  grows  yet  clearer 

The  bright  fields  of  Paradise, 
Where  is  blessedness  supernal, 
Where  are  pastures  ever  vernal, 
Where  the  flowers  bloom  eternal, 

And  the  streams  immortal  rise. 

Nor  shall  fade  the  vision  glorious, 
Till  o'er  sin  and  hell  victorious, 

Christ  shall  all  things  good  perfect ; 
Ours  the  hope  of  blessed  union, 
Ours  the  mystical  communion, 

With  the  hosts  of  God's  elect. 

Thus  may  we,  in  faith  abiding, 
Follow  the  Good  Shepherd's  guiding, 

Falter  not,  though  hosts  assail ; 
Till,  the  palms  of  victory  bearing, 
Amaranthine  garlands  wearing, 
Our  Redeemer's  victory  sharing, 

We  shall  dwell  within  the  veil. 


AGNUS    DEI. 


By  Isabel  G.  Eaton. 


o 


LAMB  of  God! 
With  sins  bowed  down,  I  cry  !    . 
The  woes  that  mortals  bear  till  day  of  doom, 
The  web  of  grief  woven  in  life's  weird  loom, 
Like  shadows  swiftly  fly 
When  Jesus  passeth  by. 

O  Lamb  of  God  ! 
Before  Thine  altar  fair 
The  prayers  of  saints,  like  incense,  ever  soar. 
The  Eternal  Son,  in  love  forevermore 
Veils  His  bright  glory  there, 
And  bends  our  griefs  to  share. 

O  Lamb  of  God ! 
For  us  the  Feast  is  spread. 
Not  all  in  vain  Thy  bitter  cross  and  woe 
When  from  it  wells  of  living  water  flow  ; 
The  wine  glows  ruby  red. 
And  thus  Thy  blood  was  shed. 

O  Lamb  of  God  ! 
Who  tak'st  our  sins  away  ! 
Thy  mercy  show  to  souls  all  penitent 
Who  seek  Thee  in  this  Blessed  Sacrament. 
Thou  Sun  of  perfect  day  ! 
Shine  on  our  toilsome  wav ! 


THE  CHRISTIAN  YEAR.  in 

O  Lamb  of  God  ! 
The  soul  no  pain  may  bear 
Who  finds  Thee  in  the  Church's  sacred  feast, 
For  at  Thy  Word  the  waves'  wild  tumult  ceased, 
And  peace  fell  like  a  prayer. 
Shall  we  Thy  sorrows  share, 
O  Lamb  of  God  ? 


HOLY    COMMUNION    HYMN. 
By  John  C.  Garrett. 

DEAR  Jesus,  full  of  tender  grace. 
In  homage  low  we  kneel, 
To  glimpse  the  brightness  of  Thy  face, 
Which  outward  signs  reveal. 

Faith  proves  Thee  present,  Lord  Divine : 

By  faith  then  to  us  come  ; 
Conveyed  by  creatures  —  bread  and  wine  — 

Make  in  our  hearts  Thy  home. 

The  broken  Body  we  receive, 
We  drink  Thy  Life's  pure  flow  : 

Now  cleanse  us  from  the  guilt  we  grieve, 
In  peace  then  bid  us  go. 

Shadows,  we  know,  must  now  divide, 

Between  our  sight  and  Thee ; 
Yet,  through  them,  we  approach  Thy  side, 

And  prove  Thy  grace  so  free. 

Dear  Saviour,  Jesus,  Holy  Guest, 

To  us  now  deign  to  come  ; 
In  our  poor  hearts  shed  peace,  give  rest  — 

Sweet  antepast  of  Home. 


112  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Yea,  Lord,  "in  this  sweet  morning  hour" 

Thyself  to  us  impart; 
Thee  to  receive,  bestow  the  power, 

And  fill  our  empty  heart. 


EARLY    COMMUNION. 
By  O.  W.  Rogers. 

AT  day's  sweet  prime  I  seek  the  fane, 
Lord,  where  Thine  honor  dwells. 
The  sunshine  through  the  painted  pane 

A  glorious  day  foretells  ; 
And  lights  upon  the  altar  shine 
As  heralds  of  Thy  grace  divine. 

Peace  welcomes  me.     I  leave  behind 
The  world  and  worldly  ways ; 

With  childlike  and  receptive  mind 
I  come  to  pray  and  praise,  — 

To  see  Thee  "lifted  up,"  O  Lord, 

By  faithful  souls  to  be  adored. 

I  lay  upon  Thine  altar  fair, 

As  offering,  my  heart ; 
My  sins  I  plead  :   they  many  are  ; 

Their  pardon,  Lord,  impart, 
And  so  refresh  me  with  Thy  grace 
That  I  may  better  run  life's  race. 

For  those  in  Paradise  I  plead, 

Who  in  the  flesh  were  dear  ; 
For  loved  ones  absent  intercede, 

As  they  were  kneeling  here. 
O  sweetest  Feast !     Communion  blest, 

'T  is  here  we  meet  and  in  Thee  rest. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  113 

O  make  us  all  partakers,  Lord, 

Of  Thy  dear  Self  to  be  ; 
Our  hearts  engraven  with  Thy  Word, 

Our  lives  Thy  ministry, 
And  ever  thankful  for  Thy  love, 
So  freely  given  us  to  prove. 

The  priest  bestows  the  sign  of  grace, 

The  Benedicite, 
While  silence  fills  the  holy  place 

Where  God  is  wont  to  be, 
And  then  my  pilgrim  path  I  take 
Ere  yet  the  world  is  quite  awake. 


OUR    LORD    IN    THE    BLESSED    SACRAMENT. 
By  Marion  Couthouy  Smith. 

HE  came  in  the  morning,  sweet  and  still 
As  the  first  sun-ray  on  some  lonely  hill ; 
From  the  splendor  of  heaven,  from  the  awful  throne, 
Veiled  and  silent,  He  came  alone. 

And  the  few  glad  hearts  that  looked  for  Him, 
In  the  pure,  soft  hush  of  the  morning  dim, 
Had  raised  Him  an  altar,  and  made  it  bright 
With  the  loveliest  gifts,  —  with  flowers  and  light. 

But  because  He  came  in  such  lowliness, 
How  many  souls  whom  He  willed  to  bless 
Looked  out  beyond  Him,  and  would  not  own 
Their  very  King  on  so  poor  a  throne  ! 

The  angels  owned  Him,  an  unseen  throng; 
But  the  silence  stirred  not  with  cry  or  song : 
The  great  world  slumbered,  and  none  drew  near 
But  the  few  to  whom  He  was  more  than  clear, — 


114  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

The  few  from  whose  eyes  no  veil  could  hide 
The  Being  of  Him  once  crucified ; 
And  into  their  heart  of  hearts  He  came, 
And  met  and  mingled  as  flame  with  flame. 

But  some  — oh,  wonder  !  —  could  touch  Him  so 
With  soul  and  body,  and  never  k?iow, 
Nor  think,  nor  care  how  His  wondrous  Love 
Drew  Him  with  yearning  from  heights  above. 

Daily  it  draws  Him,  —  so  still,  so  sweet ! 

Though  few  should  own  Him,  though  none  should  greet, 

With  us  forever  He  wills  to  stay  ; 

Jesu,  Rex  gloria,  adoro  Te  / 


T 


THE    HOLY    EUCHARIST. 

By  the  Rev.  F.  S.  Jewell,  Ph.D. 

HE  holy  ground  on  which  we  reverent  tread 
With  shrinking  foot-fall  and  unsandalled  feet 

The  mystic  shrine  within  whose  vale  we  meet 
The  wondrous  presence  of  our  gracious  Head  : 
The  altar  at  whose  blood-stained  base  we  bend 

With  grateful  alms  and  holy  praise  and  prayer  : 

The  Table  in  whose  feast  we  thankful  share; 
The  riches  which  the  Master's  grace  attend,  — 

All  these,  with  light  and  life  and  love,  are  thine  : 

O  Sacrament  of  Sacrifice  divine  ! 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  1 15 

EUCHARISTIC    HYMN. 
By  Wm.  E.  Snowden. 

PAN  IS  mundi  date  mundo 
Immundis  hominibus, 
Nos  coelesti  Cibo  Tuo, 
Pastor,  Panis,  pasce  nos, 

Vinum  animae  perdignum, 

Agne  Dei,  Domine, 
Ferens  plagas  supra  Lignum, 

Ligno  latus,  nos  audi. 

Panis  fracte  supra  Lignum, 

Panis  Tu  ex  Arbore, 
Opem  fer  iis  qui  dignum 

Coena  veniunt  frui. 

Sanguis  fuse  supra  Lignum, 

Agne  pro  nobis  Dei. 
Castos  fac  eos  qui  dignum 

Coena  veniunt  frui. 

Sanguis  sacer  sacrae  Vitis, 

Quo  rei  queunt  lui, 
Veniam  da  his  contritis 

Coena  qui  eunt  frui. 

Sacra  Vitis,  Vinum  sacrum 

Vitam  nostro  corpori 
Animaeque  ferto  Tuam, 

Coena  quum  imus  frui. 

Panis  mundi,  Vitis,  Vinum, 

Pastor,  Pastus,  nos  imple 
Te  Ipso.     Da  nobis  plenum 

Donum  Tui,  Domine. 


9 

Il6  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 


THE    BREAD    OF    LIFE. 
By  Jennie  Marsh  Parker. 


D1 


,EAR  Lord,  and  can  it  be 
That  Thou  hast  bidden  me 
To  break  my  fast,  my  hungry  soul  to  fill, 
With  that  blest  company 
In  heaven's  purity.  — 
The  host  of  angels,  loyal  to  Thy  will  ? 

I  know  it  is  not  meet 

That  one  whose  sinful  feet 
Are  ever  prone  to  choose  the  evil  way, 

Should  come  Thy  courts  within 

From  where  these  feet  have  been. 
•  Come  unto  me."  Thou  sayest  :   I  obey. 

And.  dear  Lord,  as  I  come 

Let  all  of  earth  be  dumb. 
That  my  vexed  soul  Thy  temple  calm  may  be, 

And  yearning  to  be  fed 

Of  Thee,  the  living  Bread,  — 
A  sweet  foretaste  of  heaven  and  of  Thee. 

O  blessed  company, 

Enwrapt  in  ecstasy, 
What  place  have  I  where  angel's  food  is  given 

"  Lift  up  your  hearts,"  he  saith ; 

••  Nor  hunger  unto  death.  — 
One  Bread  I  break  for  all  of  earth  and  heaven. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   YEAR.  117 


EUCHARISTIC    LIVES. 

By  the  Rev.  J.  Heber  McCandless. 
(Gospel  for  the  Fourteenth  Sunday  after  Trinity.) 

DISTRESS  unites  and  moves  the  ten  to  pray 
And  lift  their  voices  to  the  Lord  ; 
Relief  divides,  and  scatters  each  his  way, 
Unmindful  of  a  thankful  word  ; 
While  wounded  Love,  in  sad  and  wondering  tone, 
In  reverie,  as  though  alone, 
Beholding  only  one  who  kneeled, 
Speaks  to  ungrateful  hearts,  "  Were  not  ten  healed?" 

A  stranger  to  God's  Church  and  lawful  Priest 

Comes  near  to  Christ,  and  with  loud  voice 

Gives  praise  and  thanks  ;  for  he  at  least 

In  light  will  gratefully  rejoice. 

All  healed,  in  Eucharistic  song  he  lays 

At  Jesus'  feet  his  praise, 

Adoring  lowly  Him  who  blest 

And  filled  in  love  his  soul  with  deepest  rest. 

O  loving  Christ,  what  mercies  day  by  day 

Poured  from  Thy  hands  around  us  fall ! 

But  where  are  hearts  that  in  thanksgiving  pray? 

Dost  come  to  Thee  one  tenth  of  all  ? 

Our  souls  lift  up  a  moaning  voice  in  prayer,  — 

"  Kyrie  Eleison  !     Spare  !  " 

Love  hears  ;  and  gracious  voices  come. 

Eucharistic  then  our  lives  ?  or  are  they  dumb? 

O  souls,  absolved  by  Christ's  most  gracious  word, 
Made  pure  and  clean,  and  filled  with  gladness, 
When  at  the  font  and  altar  prayer  He  heard, 
Seek  Him,  and  keep  His  heart  from  sadness ! 
Seek  Eucharist,  and  keep  His  love, 
And  live  with  Him  above  ! 
And  at  the  altar,  with  most  thankful  heart, 
Draw  near,  where  nine  from  ten  depart. 


$ocm£  of  Consolation. 


THERE    WAS    NO    MORE    SEA."' 


By  Thomas  Mair. 


BRIGHT  on  the  dark,  retreating  clouds, 
Through  drops  that  sparkle  in  the  sunlight's  glow, 
Spanning  the  east,  we  view  displayed 

In  calm,  pure  beauty,  God's  majestic  bow. 

The  angry  waves  that  lately  broke 

High  in  the  cliff,  with  loud,  continuous  roar, 

Breathe  out  their  lives  in  one  last  sob, 

And  silence  reigns  along  the  peaceful  shore. 

Low  in  the  sky,  the  setting  sun 

Fills  all  the  scene,  e'er  yet  his  glories  pass, 
Till,  mirrored  in  the  flood,  we  see 

The  heavenly  vision  of  the  sea  of  glass. 


120  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

We  gaze  beyond  the  glowing  light 

Deep  in  the  west,  where  sky  and  ocean  meet. 

And  see,  like  him  in  Patmos  isle, 

The  pearly  entrance  and  the  golden  street. 

The  forms  of  those  we  long  since  lost 
Bright  with  celestial  glory  then  appear. 

Each  face  reflecting  perfect  joy. 

For  God  has  wiped  away  the  mourner's  tear. 

We  kneel  upon  the  fading  shore 

And  stretch  our  eager  hands  to  that  dear  home. 
Where,  safe  within  God's  Paradise. 

We  dread  no  more  earth's  storm  nor  billow's  foam. 

One  trembling  step,  but  He  will  guide 

Whose  voice  once  bade  the  waves  their  raging  cease, 
And  far  above  the  spreading  tide 

We  enter  God's  eternal  home  of  peace. 


INDIAN    SUMMER. 
By  Laura  H.  Feuling. 

^^HE  rainbow  lights  are  on  the  woods, 
And  all  the  hills  infold, 
And.  far  away,  the  solitudes 
Are  lit  with  rays  of  gold. 
The  yellow  leaves  come  drifting  down. 

Soft  as  a  cradle  rhyme  : 
And  so  it  was  ere  she  was  gone. 
Last  year,  this  time  ! 

The  fields  are  gay  with  golden-rod. 

The  sumach  burns  like  flame  : 
And  there  the  wild  white  asters  nod. 

The  verv,  verv  same. 


POEMS   OF   COX  SOL  AT  ION.  12  1 

A  truant  bird  on  yonder  bough 

Calls  like  a  matin  chime; 
'T  was  singing  then  as  blithe  as  now  — 

Last  year,  this  time  ! 

Xo  strange  bloom  on  the  year  is  set, 

Unlike  the  beauty  flown  : 
And  so  I  know  He  '11  not  forget 

To  give  us  back  our  own. 
He  gives  the  violet  its  blue. 

The  year  its  sunlit  prime  : 
He  '11  keep  for  us  the  face  we  knew 

Last  year,  this  time  ! 


"SOMEBODY." 
By  May  Kidder. 

SOMEBODY  lifted  her  curly  head 
To  her  dear  mamma's  kind  face,  and  said 
■•  You  say  that  for  me  His  blood  was  shed 
On  the  cross  for  my  salvation  !  " 

Somebody  knelt,  with  veiled  head  bent, 
As  the  bishop  came,  the  messenger  sent 
To  give  to  souls  the  sacrament 
Of  Holy  Confirmation. 

Somebody  lifted  her  sweet  young  face 
To  that  of  the  priest,  as  he  tried  to  trace 
In  her  tear-dimmed  eyes,  the  blessed  grace 
And  strength  of  consolation. 

Somebody  knelt  at  the  altar-rail. 
With  sad,  calm  face,  so  thin  and  pale, 
And  a  look  so  holy,  and  yet  so  frail. 
To  take  the  Cup  of  Salvation. 


122  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Somebody  lay  in  her  last  repose, 
In  her  dear,  dead  hand  a  half-blown  rose, 
And  the  voices  were  sad  and  low  of  those 
Who  were  left  in  desolation. 

Somebody  lies  in  the  churchyard  by. 
And  over  her  bends  the  clear,  blue  sky, 
As  the  old  bells  seem  to  ring  out  the  cry  : 
"  I  am  the  Resurrection  !  " 


SURSUM  CORD A! 
By  M.  E.  Beauchamp  (Filia  Ecclesiae). 

OSOUL,  that  hast  a  right  to  higher  life, 
Why  be  content  with  this  poor  mundane  sphere? 
Forgetful  of  thy  lofty  heritage, 

Why  should  thy  fears  and  wishes  centre  here  ? 

Rise  up,  O  heart,  above  this  dark,  cold  sod, 

Rise  into  warmer  air  and  purer  light, 
And  see  the  petty  joys  and  cares  of  earth 

Dwindle  and  vanish  from  thy  soaring  sight ! 

In  thy  brief  absence  from  our  Father's  courts, 

Wilt  thou  forget  thy  lineage  divine  ? 
And  more  esteem  the  exile's  mean  array 

Than  all  the  treasures  that  are  truly  thine  ? 

Why  should  we  love,  and  strive  to  make  like  home, 
This  one-night  lodging  in  a  basement  cell  ? 

When  the  whole  palace  overhead  is  ours. 
And  in  its  stately  chambers  we  shall  dwell. 

Lift  up  your  hearts!     Too  long  have  we  bestowed 
On  this  poor  earth  our  being's  noblest  powers. 

Lift  up  your  hearts  !  lift  them  to  His  abode, 
His  who  alone  can  fill  these  hearts  of  ours  ! 


POEMS  OF   CONSOLATION.  \2$ 

THE  DOVE  THAT  RETURNED  NO  MORE. 

By  E.  S. 

WHEN  o'er  the  plain  one  dreary  waste  of  water 
Dashed  its  fierce  spray  above  the  forest  tree, 
How  sweet  the  refuge,  and  how  blest  the  shelter, 
Oh,  weary  dove,  the  ark  held  forth  to  thee  ! 

But  oh  !  the  days  of  weary,  sickening  longing 
For  air  and  sunshine,  on  thy  flight  to  soar; 

The  thrill  of  rapture  when,  thy  pinions  spreading. 
Thou  couldst  fly  forth  in  the  glad  Spring  once  more. 

Alas !  not  yet  thy  captive  days  are  over. 

Not  yet  thy  home  is  in  the  mountain  pine ; 
Back  to  thy  refuge  once  again  returning. 

Fold  thy  sad  wing,  and  hope  again  resign. 

It  may  not  be,  —  again  the  eager  flutter, 

The  throbbing  heart,  the  eye  that  begs  release, — 

Fly  forth,  dear  bird,  and  bring,  when  evening  closes, 
The  leaf  that  tells  of  pardon  and  of  peace. 

Fly  forth  again,  upon  thy  way  rejoicing, 

In  God's  own  sunshine,  at  thy  pleasure  soar ; 

The  flood  has  ceased,  the  rainbow  smiles  triumphant, 
The  dove,  set  free  at  length,  returns  no  more ! 

O  weary  soul !     O  longing  heart !  a  shelter 
Beneath  God's  altar  thou  art  blest  to  find ; 

Canst  thou  not  rest,  in  peace  and  safety  dwelling, 
And  all  thy  longings  and  thy  quests  resign? 

It  cannot  be  ;  the  spirit's  deathless  craving, 

Nor  rest,  nor  peace,  alone  can  satisfy : 
It  must  have  freedom,  storm  and  darkness  braving, 

God  gave  the  wing,  't  is  He  that  bids  it  fly. 


124  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

In  vain,  again,  and  yet  again,  returning, 

It  finds  that  earth  for  it  has  but  one  Home  — 

Yet  from  its  flight  one  leaf  of  promise  bringing, 
A  moment's  glimpse  of  happier  days  to  come. 

And  they  shall  come,  —  the  eager  pinion,  stretching 
In  God's  own  sunshine,  shall  exult  and  soar; 

Bursting  the  limits  of  its  earthly  prison 
The  soul,  set  free  at  last,  returns  no  more  ! 


TIRED. 
•  By  Gertrude  E.  Heath. 

DEAR  Brother,  I  am  tired;  take  my  hand 
And  lead  me  safely  to  thy  Fatherland. 
The  path  is  stern  and  rough,  my  weary  feet 
Are  torn  and  hot.     O  Brother,  sweet, 
Canst  Thou  not  comfort  me  ?     I  am  so  worn. 
Thou  dost  not  know  the  pain  that  I  have  borne. 
Thou  dost  not  know  how  oft  I  have  sunk  down 
Beneath  my  heavy  cross  — how  far  the  crown 
Has  seemed  ;  and  I  have  thought,  O  Brother,  sweet. 
There  was  no  crown  for  me.     My  tired  feet 
Refused  to  move.     And  yet  by  some  strange  power 
I  have  gained  needed  strength  until  this  hour. 

But  now  I  am  so  tired !     I  cannot  rise. 
Oh,  bear  me  safely  on  to  sunnier  skies  ! 
The  way  is  dark,  so  dark  I  cannot  see 
One  step  before  my  feet,  —  oh,  pity  me  ! 

I  tried  to  rise  ;  alas  !  I  cannot  move  ! 
O  Brother,  raise  me  up  by  Thy  dear  love  ! 
My  dress  is  soiled  and  torn,  its  beauty  gone  — 
Too  poor  for  one  like  Thee  to  look  upon. 


POEMS  OF   CONSOLATION.  125 

1  know  I  have  been  wrong,  and  lost  my  way. 

Take,  take  my  hand  !     No  more  from  Thee  I  '11  stray. 

Dear  Brother!     Oh,  how  kind  to  seek  me  out  ! 
I  should  have  perished  quite,  Thy  care  without. 
Dear  Saviour,  take  my  hand  !     Hold,  hold  it  tight ! 
Close-folded  in  Thine  own,  oh,  happy  night ! 
No  more  to  walk  alone,  but  close  to  Thee,  — 
White  hands,  and  robe,  and  heart,  Thy  gift  to  me. 

Ah  !  this  is  worth  it  all,  —  the  thorny  way, 

The  darkness,  grief,  and  pain,  each  shadowed  day. 

For  now  I  know  that  He,  my  Brother,  sweet, 

Walked  with  me  all  the  way ;  and  when  my  feet 

Refused  their  task,  't  was  He  that  raised  me  up. 

'T  was  he,  my  Brother  dear,  who  filled  each  cup 

That  was  my  daily  drink  ;  and  it  is  He 

Whose  hand  is  folding  mine  —  who  leadeth  me! 


MARY'S    BIRTHDAY. 
By  P. 

'HP  IS  your  birthday,  my  precious,  my  darling, 

-1       Or  would  be  if  you  were  on  earth ; 
I  think  it  must  still  be  your  birthday. 

Though  born  to  your  heavenly  birth. 
The  angels,  I  know,  are  as  sweet 

As  these  lovely  white  roses  I  twine : 
Their  love  may  be  pure  and  complete, 

But  never  more  tender  than  mine. 
Are  you  glad  in  their  gladness,  my  darling  ? 

Do  you  laugh  in  their  innocent  glee  ? 
Or  are  you  lonely  in  Paradise, 

Waiting  and  wishing  for  me? 


126  LYRICS   OF    THE   LIVING   CHURCH. 

As  I  stand  now  and  look  at  your  picture, 

And  drop  on  the  roses  my  tears, 
As  I  pray  for  the  touch  of  your  fingers 

To  comfort  my  sorrows  and  fears  ; 
So  light  is  the  veil  that 's  between  us, 

To  the  mother  the  child  is  so  near, 
The  breath  of  my  soul  is  suspended 

For  your  accents  so  tender  and  clear. 

0  my  glorified  darling,  most  precious, 
The  one  gift  I  thought  was  all  mine ! 

1  have  lent  you,  not  lost  you,  my  darling, 
Only  lent  to  the  Love  that 's  divine. 

There  are  moments  so  sweet  and  so  solemn 

That  my  soul  bursts  its  prison  of  pain, 
And  soars  to  the  realm  of  the  spirit, 

And  meets  my  own  darling  again. 
Then,  calm  from  that  saintly  communion, 

I  defy  every  foe  of  the  world : 
I  scorn  every  breath  of  contumely, 

Every  shaft  by  its  ignorance  hurled. 
Why  these  black  robes  of  grief  and  of  mourning 

Do  I  wear  for  a  spirit  like  thee, 
When  my  heart  should  be  filled  with  thanksgiving 

That  my  child  from  sorrow  is  free  ? 


ALONE. 
By  the  Rev.  Nelson  Ayres. 

I  SLEPT,  and  dreamed  a  dream  of  light : 
I  seemed  to  pass  the  ocean's  foam. 
To  greet  the  southern  sunshine  bright. 
The  sparkling  waters,  land  bedight 

With  tropic  blossoms ;  now  I  roam 
No  more  ;  but  happy  plight ! 

Embrace  my  children  and  my  wife  at  home. 


POEMS   OF   CONSOLATION.  127 

Oh,  happy  dream  !     Oh,  vision  rare  ! 

This  longing  tension  of  my  heart 
Was  gone.  I  sat  all  free  from  care, 
And  gazed  upon  that  face  so  fair, 

That  thrills  my  soul's  most  secret  part, 
And  said,  No  fate  shall  tear 

Ever  again  our  throbbing  hearts  apart. 

I  woke.     The  night  was  dark  and  cold. 

The  chilly  rain  with  sullen  sound 
Was  pouring  down.     The  thunder  rolled 
In  hollow  peals.     A  dread  untold 

My  heart  in  chains  of  sadness  bound. 
Alone,  and  unconsoled 

By  light,  and  home,  and  love,  myself  I  found. 

Alas  !  how  oft  in  waking  hours 

We  dream  such  dreams  of  love  and  joy; 

Enraptured  walk  enchanted  bowers  ; 

Taste  of  love's  fruits,  and  pluck  her  flowers ! 
All  happy  bliss  without  alloy, 

All  peace  and  rest  are  ours ; 

Nor  heavy  cares,  nor  shaking  fears  annoy. 

But  soon  the  harsher  things  of  life 

Arouse  us  from  the  vision  blest; 
Its  daily  cares,  its  sordid  strife, 
Fierce  jealousies,  and  rumors  rife, 

Bring  to  the  spirit  deep  unrest. 
Alone  and  sad  is  life, 

By  darkling  storm  and  solitude  opprest. 

Alone  must  every  spirit  fare, 

E'en  through  the  full  world's  crowded  ways; 
Yet  not  alone !     For  even  there, 
In  stormiest  night  of  trouble,  prayer 

Will  find  a  God,  who  ever  stays, 
With  never-failing  care, 

On  His  eternal  staff,  the  soul  that  prays. 


128  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

His  love  a  shelter  sure  provides  : 

He  hears  the  sorrowing  sufferer's  moan; 

Beneath  His  wings'  broad  shadow  hides 

The  storm-beat  soul ;  and  gently  guides 
To  Him  the  lone  and  wandering  one. 

Whatever  ill  betides, 

Who  rests  on  God  is  never  left  alone. 


-HE    GIVETH    SNOW    LIKE   WOOJ 

By  I.  W.  P. 

"1 17 HEX  nature's  biting  northern  blast 
V  V       Hath  sealed  the  rills  of  water  fast. 
And  all  seem  on  God's  mercies  cast. 
"  He  giveth  snow  like  wool." 

When  all  around  is  bleak  and  drear. 
And  some  grow  faint,  and  many  fear, 
As  winter's  sterile  form  draws  near. 
••  He  giveth  snow  like  wool." 

When  precious  seeds  in  furrows  lie, 
To  human  seeming  like  to  die, 
As  the  dread  north  wind  passeth  by, 
••  He  giveth  snow  like  wool." 

To  clothe  anew  earth's  naked  form. 
With  mantle  pure  and  fresh  and  warm, 
And  screen  it  from  the  raging  storm, 
••  He  giveth  snow  like  wool." 

To  symbolize  the  pure  and  true, 
And  show  a  nature  rendered  new.  — 
Which  naught  but  heavenly  grace  can  do, 
"  He  giveth  snow  like  wool." 


POEMS   OF  COXSOLATIOX.  129 

THE   SOUL'S    LESSON. 
By  Mrs.  J.  D.  H.  Browne. 

SO  hard,  so  hard  to  learn  ! 
It  has  taken  years  upon  years  ; 
For  the  teaching  seemed  hard  and  stern, 
And  she  could  not  see  for  tears. 

So  hard,  so  hard  to  learn  ! 

She  longed  for  the  lighter  task  ; 
The  poor  weak  heart  would  yearn, 

And  the  faltering  lips  would  ask. 

Ah.  foolish  heart,  to  seek 

For  a  smoother,  easier  road ! 
A  way  is  made  for  the  meek 

That  will  lead  them  straight  to  God. 

So  hard,  so  hard  to  learn  ! 

For  the  soul's  eyes  were  too  dim 
With  looking  down,  to  discern 

That  the  rough  ways  lead  to  Him. 

Laden  with  love  and  care,  — 

Poor  earthly  care  and  love.  — 
Life  had  no  room  for  the  prayer 

That  lifts  to  the  peace  above. 

So  hard,  so  hard  to  learn  ! 

By  grief  was  the  lesson  taught, 
Ere  the  thirsty  soul  could  turn 

To  the  stream  that  faileth  not,  — 

Ere  the  blinded  soul  could  grope 

Towards  the  Light  that  can  never  fade, 

Could  taste  of  the  deathless  hope, 
Of  the  rest  that  Our  Lord  has  made. 
9 


130  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

So  hard,  so  hard  to  learn  ! 

And  yet  when  learned  how  sweet 
From  earth  and  its  griefs  to  turn, 

And  lie  at  the  Master's  feet. 


CHEER   UP,    FAINT   HEART! 
By  Mrs.  Jane  M.  Mead. 

CHEER  up.  faintheart! 
Plans  never  fail  that  are  of  God's  designing. 
Weep  not  for  glad  days  gone  : 
Xo  mourning  garb  put  on  : 
Though  storms  roar  loud,  behind  the  cloud 
The  same  bright  sun  is  ever,  ever  shining. 

Cheer  up,  faint  heart ! 

Be  brave,  be  brave  :  yield  not  to  doubt  nor  sorrow 

Hope's  star  may  seem  to  set. 

And  friends  grow  cold  ;  but  yet  — 
Be  strong,  be  strong  !  Life  is  not  long 
The  night  is  short;  the  sun  will  rise  to-morrow. 

Cheer  up,  faint  heart ! 

Fear  not  the  foe  :  the  war  will  soon  be  over. 

Trust  thou  thy  Leader's  skill 

To  rescue  thee:  He  will. 
O'er  God's  true  child  Heaven's  wardens  mild 
Keep  constant  guard,  and  angel  pinions  hover. 

Cheer  up,  faint  heart ! 

Thy  greatest  fear  needs  be  the  fear  of  sinning. 

Adversity  may  come, 

And  grief's  keen  darts  strike  home, 
But  trust  Him  still  thy  cup  to  fill 
With  joy,  who  knows  the  end  from  the  beginning. 


POEMS   OF  COXSOLATIOX.  131 

A   YEAR    IN    PARADISE. 

By  the  Rev.  Joseph  Cross,  D.D.,  LL.D. 

THE  saddest  days  of  all  the  year 
J-     My  saddest  thoughts  renew. 
When  Autumn  winds  with  foliage  sere 

The  mount  and  meadow  strew. 
And  midnight  clouds  are  dark  and  drear. 

And  stars  are  faint  and  few. 

A  year  to-night  since,  far  away. 

I  paced  the  silent  room. 
And  wailed  the  cold,  impassive  clay 

Apparelled  for  the  tomb. 
More  mindful  of  its  dark  decay 

Than  its  reviving  bloom. 

But.  oh !  while  oft.  with  aching  eyes, 

I  nightly  vigils  kept. 
Why  did  not  faith's  strong  pinions  rise 

To  where  the  saint  I  wept, 
Secure  from  pain,  in  Paradise, 

On  Jesu's  bosom  slept  ? 

A  year  in  Paradise  !  —  How  strange  ! 

What  note  is  there  of  time. 
What  seasons  of  successive  change, 

What  tower's  melodious  chime. 
What  measure  of  the  spirit's  range. 

What  bound  to  thought  sublime? 

A  year  in  Paradise  !  —  Released 

With  victor"s  lute  and  palm, 
A  guest  at  God's  eternal  feast 

To  swell  the  holy  psalm, 
The  tempest  of  the  passions  ceased 

In  love's  celestial  calm. 


LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING    CHURCH. 

A  year  in  Paradise  !  —  How  blest 

Is  thy  condition  now! 
New-born,  by  elder  saints  caressed, 

With  bloom-encircled  brow  : 
While  I.  an  exile  sore  distressed, 

Beneath  my  burden  bow. 

A  year  in  Paradise  !  —  Xo  tears 

In  that  fair  land  are  known  : 
Xo  gloomy  doubts  nor  ghastly  fears 

Their  baleful  seeds  have  sown  : 
Xo  broken  hearts  through  blighted  years 

Sustain  their  griefs  alone. 

A  year  in  Paradise  ! —  Serene 

In  fellowship  made  sure, 
With  spirits  robed  in  goodly  sheen, 

And  fruit  of  faith  mature, 
Mid  fields  of  never-fading  green 

And  living  waters  pure. 

A  year  in  Paradise  '.  —  Ah  me  '. 

Who  linger  yet  below. 
Through  weary  days  to  weep  for  thee, 

And  nights  of  deeper  woe. 
Till  death  shall  set  the  captive  free 

And  bid  me  rise  and  go  ! 

A  year  in  Paradise  !  —  But  why 

Lament  the  dead  that  live 
Where  He  who  lives  no  more  to  die 

Will  life  eternal  give. 
And  all  who  on  His  word  rely 

The  boon  divine  receive  ? 


A  year  in  Paradise  !  —  And  soon 
My  spirit  thine  may  trace, 

Perchance  before  another  moon. 
To  meet  thee  face  to  face. 

And  bask  in  love's  immortal  noon 
With  all  the  heirs  of  grace. 


POEMS  OF   CONSOLATIOX.  133 

A  year  in  Paradise  !  —  How  sweet 

That  precious  hope  to  me  ! 
Before  the  Saviour's  throne  to  greet 

My  other  self  in  thee, 
And  bow  to  kiss  the  nail-pierced  feet 

And  bless  the  cursed  tree  ! 

A  year  in  Paradise  !  —  Oh.  rest 

Till  that  last  gift  be  given  ; 
Till  Christ  return  —  the  King  confessed. 

And  charnel  houses  riven 
Shall  roll  their  chant  from  east  to  west, 

And  Paradise  be  Heaven  ! 


T 


BEYOND. 

By  Erastus  C.  Delay  an. 

WO  weary  feet, 

Grown  tired  upon  earth's  thorny  road, 

Have  entered  in 
The  peaceful  paradise  of  God. 


Two  loving  eyes 

That  looked  her  boy's  heart  through  and  through. 

And  sweetly  shared 
His  burdens,  that  the  mother  knew. 

Two  willing  hands 

Are  folded  now.  their  work  well  done  ; 

The  way  was  long. 
And  sweet  the  setting  of  life's  sun. 

An  angel  face 

From  which  the  clouds  of  earth  have  fled  — 

A  radiant  face  ! 
On  which  the  Saviour's  love  is  shed. 


134  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Why  should  we  mourn  ? 

The  way  was  long,  the  rest  was  sweet, 

And  ere  she  went 
She  walked  with  God  with  willing  feet. 

Oh  !  sainted  one, 

Beneath  our  cross  we  struggle  on. 

And  hail  the  day 
That  joins  wife,  father,  sister,  son. 


SHALL    I 


NOT    SEE    THEM 
STAND?" 


WAITING 


L 


By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Meech. 

IFE"S  greenest  spots  were  quickly  past, 
Life's  brightest  stars  are  sinking  fast, 


Yet  have  I  you,  and  heaven,  at  last. 
Dear  friends,  whose  feet  have  gone  before 
To  wait  upon  the  eternal  shore 
For  one  with  whom  vou  walked  of  vore. 


Between  me  and  eternity 
Life's  darkest  shadows  seem  to  lie. 
Like  clouds  against  a  summer's  sky  : 
Swiftly  I  near  the  eternal  strand  : 
Soon  shall  I  reach  the  immortal  land 
There  to  rejoin  my  household  band. 


0  dwellers  in  God's  Paradise, 
Looking  on  me  with  love-lit  eyes 

Out  from  your  home  beyond  the  skies  ! 

1  see  your  hands  stretched  forth  to  me ; 
Across  the  vast  eternal  sea 

Your  voices  call  incessantly. 


POEMS   OF   CONSOLATION.  135 

Separate  from  me,  on  holier  shore, 
Your  feet  are  set ;  tho'  severed  far, 
Still  in  my  heart  I  hold  you  more 
Than  all  the  loves  of  outlived  years. 
Above  the  din  of  earthly  cares, 
Thro'  all  the  mist  of  blinding  tears 
I  see  your  white  hands. beckon  me; 
Across  the  vast,  eternal  sea 
Your  voices  call  incessantly. 


AT    REST. 
By  Frances  A.  Shaw. 

NOW  God  be  praised  she  in  His  peace  reposes,  — 
This  gray-haired  saint  from  all  earth's  woes  at  rest. 
In  the  clasped  hands,  her  emblems,  June's  sweet  roses, 
Its  pure  white  lilies  on  her  purer  breast ! 

Tried,  patient  one  !  faithful  to  every  duty, 
Careful  and  anxious  about  many  things, 
Yet  ever  mindful  that  life's  highest  beauty 
Lies  in  the  service  of  the  King  of  kings 

The  hand  of  Martha  and  the  heart  of  Mary 

In  thee  found  union  mystical  and  sweet; 

Given  to  ,;  much  serving,"  ne'er  of  good  works  weary, 

Thy  chosen  place  was  still  at  Jesus'  feet. 

O  soul,  that  soared  on  ever  joyous  pinions, 
With  David's  psalm,  with  Miriam's  song  of  praise, 
That  found  its  home  in  Art's  serene  dominions, 
Yet  never  scorned  the  lowliest  household  ways  ! 

O  spirit  chastened  in  the  school  of  anguish, 
Doomed  from  life's  earliest  to  its  latest  breath 
To  see  hopes  perish,  fairest  home-flowers  languish, 
And  yield  at  last  to  the  grim  reaper  Death ! 


136  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

O  Niobe,  ever  loved  and  lost  ones  weeping, 

Yet  hiding  from  the  world  grief's  wound  and  smart ! 

The  Mater  dolorosa,  vigils  keeping 

O'er  her  Son's  tomb,  scarce  bore  a  sadder  heart. 

Now  dawns  thy  brighter  day,  thy  compensation  ; 
The  cross  so  meekly  borne  at  last  laid  down, 
Thou  comest  up  through  earthly  tribulation 
Unto  thy  blood-washed  robe,  thy  victor's  crown. 

Dear  mother-heart,  so  brave  and  yet  so  tender, 
Counting  as  naught  love,  labor,  sacrifice, 
The  seed  sown  here  in  toil  and  tears,  shall  render 
Sheaves  golden  and  immortal  in  the  skies  ! 


"THY   WILL    BE    DONE." 
By  the  Rev.  C.  W.  Leffingwell,  D.  D. 

WE  stood  beside  her  little  couch, 
With  tearful  eyes  and  struggling  breath 
And  vainly,  in  our  wild  despair, 

We  strove  with  death. 

In  agony  we  prayed  to  God, 

"  Oh,  spare  !    oh,  spare  our  little  one  !  " 
And  then,  by  faith,  we  tried  to  say, 
"  Thy  will  be  done." 

Our  breaking  hearts  would  scarce  consent ; 

Our  quivering  lips  could  scarce  repeat ; 
At  last  we  bowed  submissively 
At  Jesus'  feet. 

Then,  as  we  watched,  a  heavenly  light 

Beamed  from  her  large  and  lustrous  eyes, 
Through  which  the  soul  serenely  passed 
Beyond  the  skies. 


POEMS  OF   CONSOLATIOX.  137 

We  laid  her  wan  and  wasted  form 

Beneath  the  whispering  leaves  to  rest; 
The  angels  gently  placed  her  soul 
On  Jesus7  breast. 

Her  little  feet  have  never  strayed  — 
The  paths  of  sin  have  never  trod ; 
Our  precious  lamb  is  safe  within 
The  fold  of  God. 

We  love  her  still,  and  fondly  keep 

The  little  clothes  she  used  to  wear, 
Her  pretty  playthings,  and  a  lock 
Of  silken  hair. 

We  love  her  still  with  hallowed  love, 

Refined  and  purified  by  grief  — 
By  sorrow  that  alone  in  Faith 
Can  find  relief. 

God  help  us  in  these  darkened  hours  ; 

We  cannot  bear  our  grief  alone  , 
Help  us,  though  stricken,  still  to  say, 
"  Thy  will  be  done." 


CHERITH. 
By  Katherine  N.  Ward. 

FATHER!  Thy  blessed  hand,  in  love, 
Still  guides  my  footsteps  here, 
And  ever  on  my  pilgrim  way, 
Thy  sheltering  arm  is  near. 

Tho'  raven  wings  of  sorrow  cloud 

The  skies  above  my  head, 
They  bring  a  ministry  of  strength 

As  from  my  daily  bread. 


138  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

As  to  Thy  chosen  one  of  old. 
They  come  with  morning  light, 

And  still  at  quiet  eventide, 
Scarce  vanish  with  the  night. 

Thy  Cherith  stream  of  blessing  flows 

Yet  day  by  day  to  me ; 
Nor  will  it  fail  until  I  stand 

Upon  the  glassy  sea. 

When  in  that  hallowed  land  above, 
The  sinless  joys  of  heaven, 

1  drink  the  cup  that  ever  flows, 
Redeeming  love  has  given, 

Then  shall  each  lowly  sorrow  come 
In  white-robed  angel's  guise, 

That  pointed  here  the  pathway  home 
And  led  me  to  the  skies. 


A  MOTHER'S   LOGIC. 
By  the  Rev.  Frank  N.  Westcott. 

YOU  are  shocked  at  my  strange  confession 
Of  an  error,  you  say,  that  you  dread, 
That  I  for  my  boy  should  be  praying, 
Even  now,  when  I  know  he  is  dead. 

I  confess  I  ?m  not  skilful  to  answer 

In  the  old  controversial  art, 
The  only  defence  I  can  offer 

Is  the  logic  that  springs  from  the  heart. 

Suppose  you  had  loved,  with  a  passion 

That  absorbed  all  your  thoughts  and  your  cares, 

A  boy  that  God  placed  in  your  keeping, 

To  be  blessed  by  your  love  and  your  prayers ; 


POEMS  OF   CONSOLATION.  139 

And  then  when  he  grew  into  manhood, 
Felt  the  touch  of  a  sordid  world's  life, 

And  you  knew  the  perils  before  him, 
That  threatened  his  soul  in  the  strife, 

You  prayed  all  the  more  in  his  danger 

That  his  heart  might  be  kept  pure  and  fair, 

Till  it  seemed  that  each  waking  moment 
In  its  love  was  the  breathing  of  prayer. 

Suppose  that  the  shadow  of  suffering 

Deepened  suddenly  over  the  day, 
And  your  heart  stood  still  in  its  anguish 

And  you  could  do  nothing  but  pray, 

As  you  watched  and  felt  all  too  surely, 
As  the  darkness  grew  deep  in  the  night, 

That  everything  dearest  and  truest 
Was  departing  far  out  of  your  sight. 

And  after  it  all  was  quite  over, 

And  they  'd  taken  his  body  away, 
Then  what  would  you  do  in  your  anguish 

That  first  night  when  you  kneeled  down  to  pray  ? 

When  you  came  to  the  place  in  your  asking 
Where  for  years  you  had  spoken  his  name, 

Would  you  choke  down  the  words  in  your  sobbing, 
As  if  for  the  thought  there  were  blame  ? 

Is  the  God  that  you  love  so  cruel 

To  forbid  you  this  comfort  so  dear? 
If  you  yield  to  your  heart's  deep  prompting 

Must  you  do  it  with  doubting  and  fear  ? 

Has  his  soul  ceased  to  need  God's  protection,  — 
Gone  quite  out  of  reach  of  God's  care, 

That  there's  nothing  that  God  can  give  him 
In  response  to  your  heart-broken  prayer  ? 


140  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

He  still  waits  with  you  his  Lord's  coming, 

Not  yet  is  he  perfectly  blessed ; 
His  soul  must  grow  purer  and  stronger.  — 

God  can  give  him  refreshment  and  rest. 

Surely,  then,  you  would  pray  for  these  blessings, 
Your  heart  could  not  help  it,  I  'm  sure  ; 

And  in  sight  of  the  God  that  made  you, 

All  your  prayers  would  be  blameless  and  pure. 

And  each  earnest  prayer  that  you  uttered 
Would  bring  you  more  peace,  if  not  joy, 

And  keep  you  in  closer  communion 

With  your  sweet-hearted,  angel-faced  boy. 

And  so  had  you  loved  him  and  lost  him, 
You  never  could  question  your  right ; 

You  would  kneel  and  ask  God  to  bless  him, 
As  of  old  when  you  kissed  him  good-night. 


A   THOUGHT. 
By  A.  V.  R.  S. 


THERE  is  a  thought  whose  coming 
Has  often  made  me  glad  ; 
It  drives  away  the  lonely  pain 

That  makes  my  spirit  sad. 
This  is  the  thought  that  soothes  my  pain 
In  Heaven  we  can  meet  again. 

When  many  bitter  fears  arise 

That  I  may  never  see 
Again  some  dear,  familiar  face, 

Now  far  away  from  me,  — 
To  hush  my  fears,  soft  swells  the  strain  : 
In  Heaven  we  can  meet  again. 


POEMS  OF   CONSOLATION.  141 

When  thoughts  that  I  could  never  reach, 

In  case  of  need,  the  dying  bed ; 
That  long  ere  I  could  gain  the  place 

They  would  be  lying  'mong  the  dead  ; 
Still  comes  the  noble,  sweet  refrain  : 
In  Heaven  we  can  meet  again. 

When  longing  for  a  tender  word 

From  some  one  passed  away,  — 
Some  love  or  some  forgiveness  breathed 

From  now  insensate  clay,  — 
There  's  promise  in  the  soothing  strain : 
In  Heaven  we  can  meet  again. 

Oh  !  blessed  promise,  full  of  cheer 

To  yearning  hearts  below  ! 
What  blessedness  to  feel,  to  hope, 

What  blessedness  to  know 
That,  though  our  loved  are  from  us  ta'en 
In  Heaven  we  can  meet  again. 

Yes  !  there  we  can  our  friends  rejoin ! 

Free  choice  to  us  is  given, 
Whether  to  say  farewell  for  aye, 

Or,  we  will  meet  in  Heaven. 
Christ's  blood  can  wash  away  each  stain. 
Through  Him  we  meet  in  Heaven  again. 

Here  must  we  strive  to  do  His  will, 

And  thus  our  human  love, 
That  once  bound  closely  to  the  earth, 

WTill  draw  us  up  above  ; 
Blessings  of  parting  will  be  plain 
When  up  in  Heaven  we  meet  again. 

And  Father,  when  we  praise  Thy  name 

For  countless  blessings  here  : 
Or,  when  in  some  dark,  lonely  hour 

Slow  falls  the  bitter  tear, 
Howe'er  we  feel,  we  '11  swell  the  strain  ; 
Thank  God  that  we  can  meet  again  ! 


142  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING  CHURCH. 

VIA    SOLITARIA. 
By  Julia  E.  Phelps. 

THE  night  comes  on  —  the  silent  night  — 
And  storms  have  ceased,  the  valley  sleepeth. 
On  forms  beloved,  far  out  of  sight, 
My  thought  her  solemn  vigil  keepeth. 

With  holy  hush  I  walk  the  round, 

Remembered  voices  softly  calling 
My  pilgrim  feet  to  rest  profound  ; 

And  chill  with  dew  the  night  is  falling. 

Dear  scenes  !  where  once  my  Eden  bloomed; 

The  fairest  flowers  so  quickly  gathered, 
Storm-tossed  and  blighted,  lie  entombed, 

Cut  down  like  grass,  dried  up  and  withered. 

Now  strangers  walk  those  windings  sweet 
Where  sleep  the  loved  ones,  free  from  ills, 

And  other  eyes  with  rapture  greet 
The  rosy  dawn,  the  grand  old  hills. 

So  far,  and  yet  so  near  they  seem,  — 
The  greenwood  groves,  the  shady  dells, 

The  sunset  glow,  and  in  my  dream 
Your  holy  chime,  sweet  Auburn  bells  ! 

I  scarce  could  see.  through  tear-filled  eyes. 

Ancestral  homes  and  haunts  forsaken. 
On  golden  blooms  in  other  skies 

I  gaze,  and  happier  thoughts  awaken. 

Though  lost  to  mortal  sight,  I  know 
They  live  again,  in  homes  Elysian. 

Where  streams  of  living  waters  flow.  — 
I  see  them  still,  oh.  wondrous  vision ! 


POEMS  OF-  CONSOLATION.  143 

Then  will  I  stand  beside  the  loved, 

When  time  is  not,  and  love  an  ocean, 
All  sin  and  striving  far  removed, 

And  soul  meets  soul  in  rapt  devotion,  — 

There  walk  with  them  the  golden  street 
With  Him  who  Life  Eternal  giveth,  — 

Loved  Jesus  !  mine  —  oh,  rapture  sweet, 
To  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth  ! 


"ASK   AND    IT   SHALL   BE    GIVEN  YOU." 
By  C.  H.  B. 

"ASK  what  thou  wilt :  it  shall  be  done  for  thee, 
•t\     Each  prayer  is  heard  before  My  Throne  above  ; 

No  prayer  is  left  unanswered,  made  to  Me 
In  holy  fear  and  penitence  and  love." 

"  I  know  it,  Lord ;  yet  I  remember  well 
The  gifts  I  asked  of  Thee  in  early  years ; 

They  are  not  mine,  —  their  joys  I  cannot  tell,  — 
For  there  is  nought,  save  pain,  and  grief,  and  tears." 

"  Didst  thou,  my  child,  pray  for  them  in  My  Name, 

Obedient  to  the  Father's  holy  will? 
Or  didst  thou  —  thought  of  sorrow  deep,  and  shame  — 

Seek  God's  sweet  gifts  for  thine  own  pleasures  still? 

"  The  prayer  is  thine  —  the  answer  is  Mine  own; 

It  ever  comes  on  wings  of  mercy  sent, 
Wrapt  in  the  cross  that  daily  weighs  thee  down, 

Folded  within  life's  blessings  to  thee  lent. 


144  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVIXG   CHURCH. 

"  Be  strong,  and  patiently  await  My  will! 

Thy  prayers  shall  find  a  home  within  My  heart ; 
Be  faithful  unto  death,  that  I  may  fill 

Thy  soul  with  joys  which  never  shall  depart.*' 


"  Do  what  Thou  wilt,  it  shall  be  well  for  me  ; 

I  give  myself  to  Thine  eternal  love. 
Grant  to  me,  Lord,  in  Thy  good  time  to  see 

The  answer  to  my  prayers  in  realms  above.1' 


THE    LAST   SLUMBER. 
By  Edwin  B.  Russell. 

THE  summer  day  in  gradual  close, 
Sank  o'er  the  hills  in  purple  rest, 
And  glimmered  in  its  soft  repose, 
Through  all  the  peaceful  west. 
She  slept !  the  quiet  evening  breeze 
Had  lulled  her  soul  in  gentle  ease. 


She  woke  not  as  an  old  refrain 

Was  sung  by  one  who  loved  her  well ; 

The  murmurs  of  a  sweeter  strain 
Upon  her  seemed  to  dwell,  — 

Far  echoes  in  the  soul,  to  keep 

Her  sorrows  hush'd  to  heavenly  sleep. 

The  stars  through  all  the  shining  skies, 
Rose  o'er  the  fading  twilight  gloom  ; 

Yet  still  she  slept,  while  troubled  sighs 
Breathed  sadness  in  that  solemn  room. 

But  she  lay  calm  in  blessed  grace, 

And  made  that  room  a  holy  place. 


POEMS  OF   CONSOLATIOX.  145 

Yet  darker  grew  the  evening  gloom, 

Still  brighter  shone  the  starry  sky, 
And  on  her  face  there  came  a  bloom, 

As  if  an  angel  nigh 
Had  touched  his  harp,  and  o'er  her  flung 
The  magic  of  the  song  he  sung. 

She  slept :  the  waves  of  moonlight  filled 
Through  all  the  heavens  a  flood  of  peace= 

Softly  the  heart-beats  paused  and  stilled  — 
And  yet  more  soft  her  soul's  release. 

Release  and  rest  !  nor  joy  nor  pain 

Shall  wake  her  to  the  world  again. 

But  sometimes  in  the  light  of  stars 

We  think  we  see  her  gentle  smile  ; 
And  oft  through  music's  golden  bars 

We  think  we  hear  her  voice  awhile. 
Where'er  she  is  —  what  sea,  what  shore  — 
We  know  her  blessed  evermore  ! 


§£pcmg  of  patience, 


WAITING! 


By  Maie  Allyne. 


I  STAND  and  wait  at  the  beautiful  gate, 
But  it  opens  not  for  me, 
While  over  its  bars,  'mid  the  tender  stars 
One  bides,  my  sweet  companie. 

In  this  weary  land,  may  I  touch  His  hand, 

And  feel  His  star's  guiding  ray, 
Though  I  wait  so  long,  through  the  pain  grown  strong 

I  shall  reach  the  shining  way. 

Then  may  I  behold  by  the  gleam  of  gold 

Why  the  cloud  o'ershadows  here, 
And  the  Lord  denies  to  my  pained  eyes 

Glad  use,  in  His  service  dear. 

While  to  hold  me  still,  if  it  be  His  will, 

With  a  loving  heart  and  true, 
Is  a  service  meet,  to  the  Lord  as  sweet 

As  the  love  that  hastes  to  do. 


So  I  sing  to  my  heart,  and  the  song  impart; 

'T  is  a  sunbeam  through  ways  dim, 
Sometime  I  shall  know,  when  the  tide  ebbs  low. 

Somewhere  will  my  love  find  Him. 


148  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

SILENTIUM. 

By  David  Melville. 

I  STAND  and  wait  in  shadow  at  His  feet, 
The  silence  lies  around  me,  pure  and  sweet, 
And  I  am  dumb  and  ready  as  is  meet. 

I  know  my  Master  sees  me  standing  here ; 
So,  though  in  gloom,  I  cannot  let  a  fear 
Enter  my  heart ;  for  He  is  ever  near. 

Around  me,  and  about  me,  and  above, 
The  shield  and  shelter  of  His  mighty  love 
Clings  close,  and  will  not  ever  let  me  rove. 

I  long,  I  pray  a  laborer  to  be, 

I  listen  for  His  least  command  to  me, 

But  still  He  wills  it  that  I  wait  to  see,  — 

Ready  to  toil  or  suffer  for  His  sake, 

But  yet  contented  with  this  present  state, — 

"  They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

Few  tasks  appointed  fill  my  little  day  ; 
But  I  can  let,  through  me,  some  tiny  ray 
From  His  true  light  illumine  the  dark  way. 

Perhaps  in  time  the  blest  command  will  come 
That  sends  me  forth  a  guide  to  those  who  roam,  — 
To  bring  with  loving  care  some  wanderer  home. 

Meanwhile,  dear  Lord,  give  me  Thy  grace  most  sweet, 
To  wait  with  patience  'neath  Thy  mercy  seat, 
And  fall  in  adoration  at  Thy  feet ! 

Ready  to  do  whatever  is  Thy  will, 

With  praise  to  Thee  some  other  life  to  fill, 

Or,  if  'tis  best,  to  suffer  and  be  still. 


150  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

"HE    LEADETH    ME." 
By  M.  E.  Palmer. 

IN  pastures  green  ?     Not  always  ;  sometimes  He 
Who  knoweth  best  in  kindness  leadeth  me 
In  weary  ways,  where  heavy  shadows  be, 


Out  of  the  sunshine,  warm  and  soft  and  bright, 
Out  of  the  sunshine  into  darkest  night. 
I  oft  should  faint  with  sorrow  and  affright, 

Only  for  this  —  I  know  he  holds  my  hand ; 
So  whether  in  a  green  or  desert  land 
I  trust,  although  I  may  not  understand. 


And  by  still  waters  ?     No,  not  always  so  ; 
Ofttimes  the  raging  tempests  round  me  blow, 
And  o'er  my  soul  the  waves  and  billows  go. 

But  when  the  storm  beats  loudest,  and  I  cry 
Aloud  for  help,  the  Master  standeth  by 
And  whispers  to  my  soul,  "  Lo  !  it  is  I." 

Above  the  tempest  wild  I  hear  Him  say; 
"Beyond  this  darkness  lies  the  perfect  day; 
In  every  path  of  thine  I  lead  the  way." 

So  whether  on  the  hill-top  high  and  fair 

I  dwell,  or  in  the  sunless  valley  where 

The  shadows  lie  —  what  matters  ?     He  is  there. 

And  more  than  this  ;  where'er  the  pathway  lead, 
He  gives  to  me  no  helpless,  broken  reed, 
But  His  own  staff  sufficient  for  my  need. 

So  where  He  leadeth  I  can  safely  go  ; 
And  in  the  blest  hereafter  I  shall  know 
Whv,  in  His  wisdom,  He  hath  led  me  so. 


POEMS  OF  PATIENCE. 

NO    LIFE    FOR    NAUGHT. 
By  E.  S. 

AN  insect  on  the  under  side  a  leaf,  — 
Its  home,  its  world,  that  yet  unnoticed  falls 
From  some  great  tree  that  stretches  wide  its  arms 

And  to  its  shade  the  grateful  cattle  calls  ; 
Less  than  the  least  of  worms  like  this  am  I, 
Yet  known  and  cared  for  by  one  watchful  Eye. 

Or  stood  that  tree  deep  in  some  forest  vast 

Where  myriad  leaves  bud  forth  and  live  and  die, 

Then  in  the  dust,  in  fragrant,  billowy  heaps, 
Trod  by  chance  wayfarers,  unnumbered  lie; 

Such,  Lord,  am  I,  and  yet  my  very  dust 

I  know  that  Thou  wilt  keep,  a  sacred  trust. 

Perhaps  the  worm  that  lives  its  little  day 
On  that  green  leaf,  a  thread  so  fine  may  spin 

That,  wrought  in  some  rich  fabric,  it  may  deck 
A  queenly  form,  and  words  admiring  win  : 

Even  so  Thy  grace  can  take  some  word  of  mine, 

And  in  Thy  Bride's  own  raiment  let  it  shine. 

Perhaps  from  that  forgotten,  mouldering  heap 
Some  little  seed,  by  bird  or  wild  bee  brought, 

May  spring  up  to  some  flower  of  beauty  rare  ; 
Then  was  that  little  leafs  short  life  for  naught  ? 

So  would  I  sleep  forgotten  in  my  grave, 

While  o'er  my  head  such  flowers  of  beauty  wave. 

A  speck,  a  mote  among  unnumbered  worlds 
And  countless  ranks  of  being,  — such  our  lot. 

What  can  we  hope  ?  Awhile  our  part  to  play, 
To  weep,  to  laugh,  then  die  and  be  forgot ; 

Yet  has  each  life  its  place,  its  work,  its  crown, 

Its  just  reward,  its  endless,  sure  renown  ! 


5i 


152  LYRICS   OF    THE   LIVING   CHURCH. 

"EVEN    AS    THOU   WILT." 
By  F.  Burge  Griswold. 

CAN  God's  sweet  gifts  to  me, 
Dependent  be 
On  my  own  wish  and  will  ? 
Is  it  as  I  may  choose, 

Or  may  refuse. 
That  Jesus  will  fulfil 

My  spirit  with  his  grace, 

Or  will  efface 
His  image  from  my  soul, 
And  either  reign  within, 

Or  leave  to  sin 
And  Satan  all  control  ? 

Oh  !  dreadful  power  of  mine  ! 

Lord,  I  resign 
My  wish  and  will  to  thee, 
So  shall  my  soul  aspire, 

With  strong  desire, 
Thy  holy  child  to  be. 


WAITING. 
By  L.  D.  S. 


AT  Jesus'  feet  a  young  disciple  fell, 
And  poured  forth  his  complaint :  "  O  Lord,  we  know 
Beyond  what  Thou  dost  will  sin  cannot  go, 
But  it  is  hard  to  war  with  shades  of  hell 
Thy  shining  presence  would  at  once  dispel; 
It  is  so  long:  to  wait  the  end  of  woe  !  " 


POEMS  OF  PATIEXCE.  153 

His  guardian  angel  stood  and  whispered  low, 

"  Thou  hast  thy  task ;  do  that  —  all  else  is  well !  " 

He  rose,  and  with  a  sigh  the  voice  obeyed, 
And  all  his  soul  bent  to  his  task  alone, 
Unheeding  how  age  followed  youth's  bright  noon, 
Until  the  angel  came  again  and  said  : 
'•  The  Master  calleth  ;  rise,  thy  task  is  done  !  " 
And  then  he  cried,  in  wonder  rapt :  "  So  soon?  " 


"HE    LEADETH    ME." 
By  the  Rev.  E.  B.  Russell. 

UPON  my  chamber's  pictured  wall, 
Before  my  couch  this  text  I  see, 
Where  first  and  last  mine  eyes  must  fall. 
The  blessed  words  — 
"  He  leadeth  me  I " 

The  dawn's  bright  rays  the  sentence  show, 

That  so  may  waking  joyous  be  ; 
At  midnight  in  the  firelight  glow 

The  shining  words  — 

He  leadeth  me  ! 

It  tells  how  all  the  day  my  Lord 

Lights  all  my  paths,  His  will  to  see, 
And  when  I  sleep  keeps  watch  and  ward : 

The  guardian  words  — 

He  leadeth  me  ! 

In  health,  as  happy  moments  fly 

When  the  sweet  chords  of  life  agree. 
Or  when  in  pain  or  grief  I  sigh : 

The  precious  words  — 

He  leadeth  me  ! 


54 


LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

How  dear  the  hand  that  wrought  this  text 

In  love,  that  I  might  daily  see, 
If  joyful,  sad,  serene,  perplext, 
The  tender  words  — 
He  leadeth  me  ! 

Be  it  the  motto  of  my  life, 

In  mart  or  field,  on  land  or  sea : 
My  conquering  song  in  death's  dread  strife. 

Triumphant  words  — 

He  leadeth  me  ! 


IN    THE    PRINTING   OFFICE. 

By  J.   C.   S. 

CANNOT  read  it,  Father;  Father,  see! 
I  cannot  read  it,  spell  it  out  for  me ; 
I  thought  that  surely  I  my  letters  knew, 
But  this  I  find  I  really  cannot  do." 


I 


So  spake  a  child  who  at  his  father's  side 

Walked  through  a  printing  room  and  vainly  tried 

To  read  the  type.     The  printer  smiling  laid 

Upon  the  press  a  sheet,  and  kindly  said, 

"  Come,  little  one,  and  try  to  read  once  more 

These  letters,  for  they  were  reversed  before 

But  now  they  "re  plain/''     The  clouds  from  that  fair  brow 

Have  passed  away,  for  he  can  read  it  now. 

So  with  our  Father's  dealings.     Day  by  day 

We  try  to  read,  and  puzzled  turn  away. 

We  do  not  understand,  we  cannot  see 

Why  this  was  done,  or  that  allowed  to  be. 

But  in  the  world  to  come,  through  His  clear  light, 

We  too  shall  read  the  mystery  aright. 


POEMS  OF  PATIENCE.  155 

THE    SCULPTOR. 
By  A.   B.   P. 

TIS  the  Master  who  holds  the  mallet, 
And  day  by  day 
He  is  chipping  whatever  environs 

The  form,  away ; 
Which,  under  His  skilful  cutting, 

He  means  shall  be 
Wrought  silently  out  to  beauty 

Of  such  degree 
Of  faultless  and  full  perfection 

That  angel  eyes 
Shall  look  on  the  finished  labor 

With  new  surprise, 
That  even  His  boundless  patience 

Could  grave  His  own 
Features  upon  such  fractured 

And  stubborn  stone. 

'T  is  the  Master  who  holds  the  chisel ; 

He  knows  just  where 
Its  edge  should  be  driven  sharpest, 

To  fashion  there 
The  semblance  that  He  is  carving ; 

Xor  will  He  let 
One  delicate  stroke  too  many, 

Or  few,  be  set 
On  forehead  or  cheek,  where  only 

He  sees  how  all 
Is  tending  —  and  where  the  hardest 

The  blow  should  fall, 
Which  crumbles  away  whatever 

Surperfluous  line 
Would  hinder  His  hand  from  making 

The  work  divine. 


156  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

With  tools  of  Thy  choosing,  Master, 

I  pray  Thee,  then, 
Strike  just  as  Thou  wilt,  as  often, 

And  where,  and  when, 
The  vehement  stroke  is  needed ; 

I  will  not  mind, 
If  only  the  clipping  chisel 

Shall  leave  behind 
Such  marks  of  the  wondrous  working, 

And  loving  skill, 
Clear  carven  in  aspect,  stature, 

And  face,  as  will. 
When  discipline's  hands  are  over, 

Have  all  sufficed 
To  mould  me  into  the  likeness 

And  form  of  Christ, 


MY   STRENGTH    AND    I. 
By  Frances   M.    Buchan. 

MY  strength  and  I  were  boastful 
O'er  the  evil  that  might  come  ; 
We  had  worked  together  bravely 
Through  tempest,  shadow,  sun. 

The  heights  that  towered  above  us 

We  scorned  as  trivial  things ; 
We  made  the  ascent,  fearless, 

For  the  triumph  that  it  brings. 

My  strength  and  I  knew  nothing 
But  endurance  brave  and  strong ; 

We  smiled  when  others  fainted, 

Though  the  way  seemed  drear  and  long. 


POEMS  OF  PATIENCE.  15  7 

We  thought  this,  consecration  — 

My  silly  strength  and  I  ; 
Deemed  it  the  Master's  calling, 

For  which  we  'd  dare  to  die. 

A  human  pride  did  flatter 

My  foolish  strength  and  me; 
The  grace  and  faith  that  quicken, 

Our  blindness  could  not  see. 

A  storm  then  fell  about  us, 

A  whirlwind  from  the  sky  ; 
We  fought  and  struggled  with  it, 

My  own  proud  strength  and  I. 

A  bitter,  bitter  contest, 

A  friendship  lying  dead  ; 
My  strength  and  I  did  bury 

That  whence  the  soul  had  fled. 

My  strength  and  I  drew  closer 

And  vowed  we  'd  never  part,  — 
We  were  so  true  and  trusting 

In  word  and  deed  and  heart. 

Then  came  a  fear,  so  sudden 

Our  very  soul  did  quake  ; 
My  strength  and  I  did  tremble 

O'er  the  havoc  it  did  make. 

And  burden  after  burden 

Fell  on  my  strength  and  me, 
Till  at  last  we  staggered  blindly 

With  a  load  of  misery. 

Prostrate  we  fell,  and  waited, — 

No  human  aid  had  we  ; 
The  Master's  voice  did  call  us  — 

My  shattered  strength  and  me. 


158  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

His  loving  Hand  did  raise  us, 
He  gave  us  power  to  see ; 

Thy  grace,  O  God,  can  succor  — 
We  owe  our  strength  to  Thee. 

Now  is  the  truth  made  manifest 
To  my  humbled  strength  and  me  ; 

At  our  Masters  feet  low  kneeling, 
His  strength  in  all  we  see. 

The  cross  'neath  which  we  stumbled 

Has  raised  us  up  anew, 
We  pray,  my  chastened  strength  and  I, 

For  grace  His  work  to  do. 


Eegcntiarp  and  Allegorical  |&oem& 


A   CHRISTMAS    LEGEND. 
By  L.  D.  S. 

IN  years  gone  by,  e'er  man  had  seen 
A  cross-capped  spire,  or  heard  a  bell 
Its  Christmas  benediction  tell, 
When  Force  was  king  and  Pride  was  queen, 

Three  captives  in  a  dungeon  lay, 

Each  in  a  lonely  cell  confined, 

Bound  hand  and  foot,  chained  heart  and  mind, 
Shut  out  from  hope  and  life  and  day. 


A  dark-skinned  man  from  tropic  skies, 
Whose  sweat -damp  brow  was  overhung 
By  matted  locks,  that  round  it  clung 

Above  the  gleam  of  sullen  eyes,  — 


l6o  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

This  was  the  first :  the  stones  his  bed  ; 

For  gems,  steel  bands  'round  hands  and  feet; 

The  rumble  of  the  busy  street 
For  lullaby  above  his  head. 

Strange  the  next  cell !     A  woman  there 
As  graceful  as  young  alders  are, 
Pale  as  the  moon,  each  eye  a  star 

Gleaming  beneath  her  dusky  hair. 

And  yet  those  eyes  are  dim  with  tears  ! 

And  see !  —  they  fall  on  chains  of  gold  ! 

Those  gorgeous  draperies  enfold 
A  heart  of  woe,  a  breast  of  fears. 

The  third,  —  the  last  and  worst  of  wrongs  !  — 
A  little  child,  with  garments  torn, 
And  face  with  care  too  early  worn, 

His  feet  confined  with  silken  thongs. 

Thus  lay  these  captives  many  a  year, 
Nor  looked  for  succor  save  from  death, 
When  on  a  day  with  bated  breath 

They  heard  an  unknown  step  draw  near,  — 

A  gentle  step,  as  maid  or  boy, 

Yet  firm,  as  one  who  for  the  right 
Goes  forth  into  the  deadly  fight,  — 

A  crown,  a  grave,  were  equal  joy. 

The  first  strong  door  flew  open  wide: 
The  Fettered  saw  before  his  face 
One  full  of  glory  and  of  grace, 

As  childhood  were  it  deified. 

"  Be  free,  O  brother  !  "     From  his  hands 
And  feet  fell  off  the  smitten  steel ; 
"  Henceforth  Love's  dear  constraining  feel, 

And  joy  to  serve  where  He  commands." 


LEGENDARY  AND   ALLEGORICAL.  161 

Again  before  that  beauteous  Child 

The  fast-barred  door  swung  open  wide, 
And  hastening  to  the  woman's  side, 

He  looked  into  her  face  and  smiled. 

"  Who  called  thee  Eve  and  bound  thee  here 

As  Mary  every  tongue  shall  bless. 

Mother  "  (with  infinite  tenderness), 
"  Love  perfected  shall  cast  out  fear." 

His  hand  her  golden  fetters  clave  : 

She  rose,  and  with  an  angel's  look, 

Her  draperies  and  ointment  took, 
And  bound  the  chain-wounds  of  the  slave. 

With  smile  of  deepest  love  and  joy 

The  Child  threw  wide  the  last  barred  door, 
And,  filled  with  holy  anger,  tore 

The  thongs  from  off  the  fettered  boy. 

The  slave,  at  Love's  unvoiced  behest, 
Lifted  and  gave  the  little  one 
Into  the  woman's  arms.     "  My  son  !  " 

She  cried,  and  clasped  him  to  her  breast. 

From  thence  into  the  light  of  morn 

The  freed  ones  —  now  but  three  —  outpassed. 
Bells  pealed.    "  What  is  this  joy  ?  "  they  asked. 

Men  stared.  "  Whence  came  ye  ?    Christ  is  born  !  " 


A   LEGEND    OF   SAINT   AUGUSTINE. 
By  Mary  Bayard  Clarke. 

WITH  study  spent  and  worn  with  care 
A  bishop  wandered  by  the  sea, 
A  reverend  Father  of  the  Church, 
And  skilled  in  its  disputes,  was  he. 
ii 


1 62  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Long  had  he  sought  to  know  that  truth 
Whose  height  no  human  mind  can  reach, 

And  earnest  prayed  for  light  divine 

On  what  he  should  and  should  not  teach. 

What  was  that  God-Head  over  which 
The  subtle  Greek  in  keen  debate, 

Had  wrangled  until  Christian  love 

Seemed  almost  quenched  in  deadly  hate? 

As  wrapped  in  thought  he  slowly  walked, 
Scarce  conscious  of  the  evening  breeze. 

Upon  the  great  sea's  sandy  beach. 
A  little  child  at  play  he  sees. 

"  What  dost  thou,  little  one  ?  "  he  said, 
As  with  a  conch-shell  in  each  hand, 

The  child  bore  water  from  the  sea 
To  fill  a  hole  scooped  in  the  sand. 

"  Just  what  you  vainly  strive  to  do.*' 
With  solemn  look  the  child  replied; 

"  I  seek  to  drain  the  ocean  dry 
To  fill  a  hollow  by  its  side. 

"  As  well  do  this  as  try  to  crowd 

Infinite  truth  in  finite  mind, 
Or  with  your  puny  human  powers 

The  secret  things  of  God  to  find." 

Startled  to  hear  from  childish  lips 
A  truth  so  pointed  yet  so  grand. 

The  bishop  bowed  his  head  and  cried. 
"  Before  Thee,  Lord,  rebuked  I  stand." 

But  when  he  raised  his  eyes  and  saw 
The  child  had  vanished  from  the  beach, 

He  felt  it  was  an  angel  sent. 

This  mighty  truth  to  him  to  teach. 


LEGENDARY  AND  ALLEGORICAL.  i  63 

THE    LEGEND    OF    SAIXT    DOROTHEA. 

(Inscribed  to  Flower  Missions.) 
By  Katharine  Read  Lockwood. 

FAIR  Dorothy  went  up  and  down 
The  lanes  and  by-ways  of  the  town, 
God's  peace  upon  her  gentle  brow. 
God's  peace  within  her  heart,  I  trow,  — 
A  maid  whose  every  thought  was  given 
To  deeds  of  love  and  hopes  of  heaven. 

Her  life  was  made  of  sweet  content : 

On  charity's  kind  errands  sent 

To  souls  that  hungered,  souls  in  pain, 

To  souls  that  doubted,  souls  in  chain  ;         * 

Where  ways  were  dark  and  men  were  fearing. 

This  lovely  lady  came  with  cheering. 

The  cross,  Christ's  symbol  now  world-wide. 
A  few  brave  hearts  owned  then  aside. 
The  few  brave  hearts  that  bore  His  Name 
Acknowledged  Him  through  scoff  and  shame  : 
Fair  Dorothy  of  these,  — not  hiding 
Her  Lord's  reproach  for  foe's  deriding. 

One  day  a  tumult  rose  in  Rome, 

Where  Dorothea  had  her  home. 

"  Seize  all  the  Christians  !  "  was  the  cry,  — 

"  Let  not  one  Nazarene  go  by  ! 

Ransack  all  corners  of  the  city! 

And  burn  them  without  show  of  pity.'' 

Fair  Dorothea  with  the  rest 
Was  borne  upon  the  crowd  abreast. 
Calm,  pitiful,  crossed  by  no  doubt, 
To  Christ  the  Lord  her  heart  went  out. 
What  were  her  brief  and  fleeting  losses 
To  His  and  all  the  marlvrs1  crosses  ? 


1 64  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

A  youth,  attracted  by  the  stir, 

"  Ho,  Dorothy  !  "  called  out  to  her 

(Speaking  within  his  palace  door). 

"  You've  had  your  way.     What  ask  you  more  ? 

You  would  not  listen  to  my  warning, 

And  so  you  die  this  dreadful  morning. 

i;  I  could  have  saved  you  had  we  wed. 
A  broken  reed,  when  all  is  said, 
Is  this  Jew-god  on  whom  you  lean !  " 
She  smiled,  blue-eyed,  gold-haired,  serene. 
"  Nay,"  said  she,  without  fail  or  falter; 
"  My  sole  Love  waits  me  at  the  altar." 

"  You  rave,  you  rave  !     You  throw  aside 
Life,  beauty,  wealth,  and  youth  ! "  he  cried. 
"  I  go  to  Life  more  fair  by  far 
Than  any  dreams  of  mortal  are. 
This  night  I  shall  behold  the  flowers 
That  bloom  in  Paradise's  bowers." 

"  Oh,  flowers  !  "  he  scoffed  ;  "  oh,  Paradise  ! 
You  cheat  yourself  with  fool's  device  ; 
And  yet  I  love  you.     This  right  arm 
Would  even  yet  shield  you  from  harm. 
Only  recant !  "     "And  miss  the  blessing 
That  follows  on  a  good  confessing  ? 

"  Oh,  slow  of  heart !     Why  doubt  you  this  ? 

Nay,  when  my  soul  hath  gained  her  bliss, 

I  '11  pray  some  roses  from  the  Warden 

Of  the  immortal,  heavenly  garden; 

I  '11  send  them  to  you  as  a  token 

That  true  are  all  the  words  I  've  spoken." 

She  bowed  her  head,  smiled,  passed  to  death, 
Praising  her  God  with  latest  breath ; 
And  many  mourned  her  in  the  town 
Where  she  went  kindly  up  and  down; 
And  one  man,  plunged  in  wild  excess, 
Could  but  lament  her  none  the  less. 


LEGENDARY'  AND   ALLEGORICAL.  165 

That  night  a  knock  came  at  his  door  : 
He  opened  it,  and  stood  before 
A  boy  with  seraph  brow  and  eyes, 
Who,  facing  his  confused  surprise, 
Held  him  fair  boughs  with  roses  laden,  — 
Gifts  from  the  blessed  Martyr  Maiden. 

Next  day  a  rumor  rang  along 

The  wondering  city's  busy  throng,  — 

Saint  Dorothea's  lover  came 

To  those  baptizing  in  Christ's  Name  ! 

"  I  do  repent !  "  he  cried.     "  Believe  me. 

And  as  Theophilus  receive  me." 

Thus  Theophile  and  Dorothy 

(God's  gift,  God's  love)  in  mystery 

Of  Baptism  united  were  ; 

And  he  became  a  minister 

Of  the  young  Church,  and  fondly  cherished 

Her  Faith  until  for  it  he  perished. 

So  runs  her  legend,  fair  and  wise, 
Who  roses  sent  from  Paradise  ; 
And  in  her  name  the  Church  since  then 
Sends  flowers  forth  to  suffering  men,  — 
Such  as  she  toiled  among  when  living. 
Sweet  hints  of  heavenly  comfort  giving. 


DOMINE,    QUO   VADIS? 

(A  Legend  of  Saint  Peter.) 
By  Mary  Bayard  Clarke. 

IN  the  dark  days  of  Nero's  reign, 
Whose  hand  with  Christian  blood  was  red, 
Trembling  before  the  heathen's  rage, 
From  Rome,  Saint  Peter  faithless  fled. 


1 66  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING  CHURCH. 

"T  was  night :  and  through  the  city  gate, 
Where  drunken  guards  in  silence  slept, 

No  angel  walking  by  him  now, 
With  stealthy  step  he  slowly  crept. 

Fear  paralyzed  his  soul,  until 
The  dangerous  spot  was  safely  past, 

When  conscience  raised  her  voice  and  spoke 
Those  words  his  Lord  had  uttered  last. 

Bowed  down  with  shame,  Saint  Peter  walked, 
Till  in  the  twilight  dim  and  gray, 

He  saw  a  well-remembered  Form 
Pass  slowly  down  the  Appian  way. 

"  Lord,  whither  goest  Thou  ?  "  he  cried, 
And  marked  the  cross  the  Saviour  bore  ; 

"  I  go  to  Rome,"  his  Master  said, 
-'-  There  to  be  crucified  once  more.'' 


Saint  Peter  could  not  meet  that  glance 
Of  pitying  love  and  deep  reproof, 

Seen  once,  and  only  once  before, 
When  from  his  Lord  he  held  aloof. 


O'ercome  with  mingled  grief  and  shame. 
He  fell  in  anguish  on  his  knees, 

As  gliding  slowly  on  to  Rome, 
His  Master's  fading  Form  he  sees 


It  was  enough  !  in  his  grand  soul 
All  fear  and  shame  forever  died ; 

Backward  he  turned,  and  nobly  wrought, 
Till  he  at  Rome  was  crucified. 

And  still,  beside  the  Appian  way, 
The  mark  of  Jesus'  feet  is  shown  : 

But,  ah  !  its  living  print  remains 
In  human  hearts,  and  not  on  stone. 


LEGENDARY  AND   ALLEGORICAL.  167 

"DE    IMITATIONE    CHRISTI." 

By  Harriet  W.  French. 

It  is  told  of  Thomas  a  Kempis  that  as  he  walked  with  his  brethren 
in  cloister  and  garden,  he  often  withdrew  from  them,  saying,  "  Dear 
Brethren,  I  must  go  ,  One  is  waiting  for  me  in  my  cell.,,  What  the 
voice  of  the  Beloved  said  to  Thomas  and  what  the  voice  of  the  Disciple 
replied,  we  find  in  the  wonderful  treatise  treasured  in  the  devotion  of 
centuries,  —  the  treatise  "  Concerning  the  Following  of  Christ." 

THROUGH  the  wide  garden  do  the  brethren  pace, 
Where  fall  of  fountains  cools  the  crystal  air 
And  birds  sing  sinless  antiphon  to  prayer, 
And  flowers  breathe  fragrant  incense  through  the  place. 

The  brethren's  hours  of  silence  duly  spent, 
Now,  in  familiar  speech  of  things  around, 
Of  skies  o'erhead  and  small  blooms  on  the  ground, 
They  take  their  harmless  pleasure,  full  content. 

For  they  who  loftiest  soar  in  heavenward  flight, 
Find  the  earth  fair,  and  with  a  child's  meek  heart, 
In  lowly  things  learn  God's  dear  love  and  art, 
And,  pure  of  spirit,  win  divinest  sight ; 

Joying  in  common  charms  of  earth  and  sky, 
In  every  varying  hue  of  pulsing  light, 
In  blushing  rose,  or  lilies'  mystic  white, 
And  wood-note  wild  by  breezes  borne  anigh. 

So  when  from  prayer  and  toil  the  brethren  cease, 
Cheerful,  their  cares  they  lay  aside  awhile,  — 
Freely  go  forth  to  bask  in  Nature's  smile, 
And  take  her  gentle  benison  of  peace. 

In  groups  they  stroll  adovvn  their  'customed  walk, 
And  one,  whose  voice  thrills  with  a  tender  joy, 
As  though  some  happy  secret  did  employ 
His  deepest  thought,  beneath  his  lighter  talk, 


1 68  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Says,  simply,  to  his  brethren  standing  near, 
"  Dear  friends,  I  go  :   One  waits  me  in  my  cell." 
And  they,  this  Heavenly  Favor  knowing  well, 
List,  half  in  hope  the  Voice  Divine  to  hear. 

What  spake  the  Voice,  and  what  the  low  return 

Of  the  Disciple's  earnest,  meek  reply. 

In  holy  interchange  and  converse  high. 

They  know  whose  hearts  with  love  of  Jesus  burn, 

In  pondering  o'er  the  sweet,  grave  words  which  tell 
Of  following  Him  whose  voice  bids  us  aside, 
Wondrously  willing  with  us  to  abide. 
Awaiting  each,  in  his  own  heart's  deep  cell. 


BROTHER    PHILIP. 
By  Harriet  W.  French. 

LOFTY  the  walls  of  stone,  stern,  strong,  and  gray 
Where  live,  of  earthly  life  and  love  forgot, 
Marking  with  toil  and  chant  each  peaceful  day, 
The  pious  Brethren  of  the  Common  Lot. 

Among  them,  on  his  menial  tasks  intent. 
Patient  to  bear  and  do  in  daily  round 

Each  smallest  duty.  Brother  Philip  went — ■ 
In  hardest  labor,  chief  contentment  found. 

To  others,  in  their  penance  or  their  praise, 
Were  granted  glimpses  of  the  Life  above. 

Visions  of  bliss  repentant  souls  to  raise 
To  Him  whose  Being  and  whose  Name  is  Love. 


LEGENDARY  AND   ALLEGORICAL.  169 

Never  to  Philip  —  counting  weary  years, 
All  vain,  his  penances,  his  prayers,  he  deemed. 

Borne  down  and  broken  by  his  weight  of  fears, 
Of  comfort,  hope,  or  Heaven  he  hardly  dreamed. 

Prone  on  the  stony  floor  at  dawn  he  lay, 
Pouring  his  heart  out  in  one  fervent  prayer 

For  patience  to  abide  his  Lord's  delay, 
Lest  faith  should  yield  to  sickening  despair. 

"  I  am  so  weak,"  he  cried,  "  so  frail  and  fond, 
My  sins  have  hid  from  me  Thy  Blessed  Face ! 

I  cannot  soar  these  fleshly  bounds  beyond, 
To  feel  the  warmth  and  glory  of  Thy  Grace. 

"  How  have  I  longed  for  Thee,  my  God,  my  Light, 
And  wearied  heart  and  flesh  in  sleepless  pain, 

Hoping,  in  torturing  vigils  of  the  night, 
Thou  wouldst  draw  near  and  call  me  by  my  name. 

'•  Dead  even  to  God  — forgotten  in  my  cell, 
How  dare  I  hope  the  Beauteous  King  to  see, 

When  saints  alone  —  alas  !  I  know  full  well, 
Gain  the  blessed  vision  aye  withheld  from  me  ? " 

A  sudden  glory  thrilled  the  ambient  air ; 
Warmth,  fragrance,  stillness  filling  all  the  space ; 

In  midst,  a  radiant  Form,  Divinely  fair, 
And,  sweet  through  suffering,  smiled  the  Saviour's  face. 

Quick,  Philip  stretched  forth  worn  and  wasted  hands, 
The  raptured  silence  by  no  breath  he  broke, 

Waited  Love's  sweet,  compulsory  demands  — 
Alas  !  no  voice  the  tranced  hush  awoke. 

But  with  imperious  call  clangs  forth  the  bell, 
The  poor  are  gathered  at  the  Convent  gate  ; 

Why  comes  not  Brother  Philip  from  his  cell, 
To  dole  the  daily  food  for  which  they  wait? 


170  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

He  cannot  go —     What !  leave  his  gracious  Guest, 
So  long  awaited,  sought  with  anguished  cry. 

When  years  may  lapse  e'er,  all  his  fears  at  rest, 
Death  sets  him  free  to  see  his  Lord  on  high  ? 

Again  the  walls  give  back  the  bell's  deep  tone, 
And  angry  sounds  of  mingled  voices  rise  ; 

A  lull  —  and  Philip  hears  a  child's  weak  moan  — 
Then  Famine's  outcry,  drowning  women's  sighs. 

One  instant  lingered  he  upon  his  knees, 
Recalling  that  his  Master  once  had  said, 

"  To  Me  is  done  whate'er  is  done  to  these.'' 
Then  forth  to  feed  his  Master's  poor,  he  sped. 

His  sacred  labor  ended,  back  he  hied, 
To  kneel  within  his  late  transfigured  room, 

When  lo!  even  yet  the  place  is  glorified, 
All  richly  glowing  as  a  rose  in  bloom. 

"  Philip,  Beloved,  faithful  in  thy  place  ! 
Hadst  thou  remained  and  left  My  poor  unfed, 

In  selfish  hope  of  more  exceeding  grace, 
Leaving  thee  all  unblest  I  must  have  fled.'' 

So  spake  our  Lord,  in  tones  of  tender  calm, 
And  raised  o'er  Philip's  head  Hands  beaming  light,  — 

Dear  pierced  Hands,  whose  wounding  is  our  balm, — 
Then  passed,  in  act  of  benison,  from  sight. 


SAIXT    VERONICA. 

By  the  Rev.  Melville  K.  Bailey. 

WEEPING  she  stood  in  that  sad  street 
Where,  in  morn's  twilight  gray. 
Passed  murmuring  the  saddest  throng 
That  saw  earth's  saddest  daw 


LEGENDARY  AND  ALLEGORICAL.  171 

u  O  mournful  lady,  what  hast  thou, 

And  wherefore  dost  thou  weep, 
And  why  do  thy  tear-laden  eyes 

So  long  their  vigils  keep  ?  " 

"  I  weep  for  Him  ye  bear  away. 

Oh,  lay  this  kerchief  now 
With  tender  touch  upon  the  drops 

That  stain  His  sinless  brow  !  " 

They  laid  her  kerchief  on  His  face  : 

Soft  fell  its  folds,  I  ween, 
On  brow  and  eyes  and  grieving  mouth, 

Where'er  love's  mark  was  seen. 

And  when  they  gave  it  back  to  her,  — 

Oh,  marvel  strange  to  tell  !  — 
It  bore  the  image  of  His  face 

Who  loved  our  race  so  well. 

Then  bear  His  body  to  the  cross, 

Or  bear  it  to  the  tomb, 
Or  let  its  living  glory  rise 

From  low  earth's  twilight  gloom  ; 

Yet  this  true  lady  hath  the  pledge, 

The  seal  of  love  and  life,  — 
Of  love  for  earth ;  of  life  when  death 

Makes  peace  of  deathful  strife. 

And  when  the  night  drew  down  in  shade, 

I  think  that  she  might  see 
The  Face  that  lived  in  that  soft  veil 

Sad  with  Gethsemane ; 

Or  when  the  golden  sunlight  glowed 

In  all  its  sacred  folds. 
It  shone  with  that  unconquered  Life 

Xo  rocky  chamber  holds  ; 


172  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Or  when  a  breeze  stirred  all  the  threads, 
Would  pass  a  mystic  grace. 

Tender  with  pity  and  with  love, 
Upon  the  wondrous  Face. 

And  if  it  be  not  still  at  Rome, 

In  Milan,  or  in  Spain, 
Yet  is  the  tale  not  all  untrue, 

Nor  told  us  all  in  vain  : 

For  all  the  world  is  but  a  veil 
Laid  o'er  Christ's  living  Face.  — 

In  all  its  threads,  and  all  its  folds, 
His  likeness  we  may  trace. 

His  Image  lives  in  earth's  wide  fields ; 

It  trembles  on  the  sea  ; 
'T  is  joyous  in  the  day's  bright  glow, 

Sad  in  night's  mystery. 

It  is  to  us  the  faithful  pledge, 
The  seal  of  love  and  life,  — 

Of  love  for  earth  ;  of  life  when  death 
Makes  peace  of  deathful  strife. 


A   MANSION    IN    HEAVEN. 

(A  Legend  of  Saint  Thomas,  Bishop  of  Abyssinia.) 
By  Mary  Bayard  Clarke. 

HIGH  in  the  favor  of  the  king. 
Thomas  the  Apostle  stood  ; 
Bishop  of  Abyssinia  he, 

Whose  title  was  "  the  Good.'1 


LEGENDARY  AND   ALLEGORICAL.  173 

"  I  trust  this  Christian,"  said  the  king  ; 

"  And  in  my  absence  he 
Shall  with  my  gathered  treasures  build 

A  palace  grand  for  me." 

And  then  his  treasury  keys  he  gave 

Into  Saint  Thomas'  hand  : 
"  Two  years  I  take  my  journey  far, 

And  leave  thee  in  command. 

"  Build  thou  for  me  a  palace  fair,  — 

Fairer  than  any  known. 
Thyself  inspect  each  joist  and  beam, 

And  lay  the  corner-stone." 

He  said,  and  on  his  journey  went. 

Saint  Thomas  oped  the  door, 
And  daily  from  the  treasury  took 

Money  to  feed  the  poor. 

And  in  the  monarch's  name  he  gave 

Outside  the  Church  a  dole  ; 
While  he  within  prayed  God  that  Christ 

Would  turn  the  heathen's  soul. 

The  years  pass  by  :  the  king  returns 

His  palace  to  inspect, 
And  finding  none,  in  prison  threw 

The  recreant  architect. 

"  I  '11  torture  thee  till  back  I  get 

The  treasures  thou  hast  spent." 
Without  an  answering  word,  the  saint 

To  prison  calmly  went. 

That  night,  while  in  the  prison  bound 

Saint  Thomas  praying  waits, 
In  sleep  the  angel  took  the  king 

Up  to  the  Golden  Gates. 


174  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

"  Look  in,  0  mighty  king  !  "  he  said  ; 

"  Thy  stately  palace  see  ! 
'T  was  with  thy  treasures  built  by  prayer 

In  Paradise  for  thee. 

"  Eternal,  and  not  made  with  hands, 
Where  neither  moth  nor  rust 

Can  fret  that  treasure  or  consume, 
Saint  Thomas  stored  thy  trust. 

"  Its  stones  are  alms  he  daily  gave 
From  death  to  save  thy  soul, 

And  earnest  prayer  the  cement  which 
Consolidates  the  whole." 

In  awe  the  Abyssinian  king 

Before  the  angel  bowed, 
And  in  the  trouble  of  his  soul 

In  sleep  he  cried  aloud. 

Trembling  he  woke,  and  straight  arose, 

And  to  the  prison  went, 
And  at  the  Apostle's  feet  so  low 

His  kingly  head  he  bent. 

"  Teach  me,''  he  said,  "  that  so  I  may 

Dwell  in  that  mansion  fair 
Which  thou  hast  built  in  Paradise 

For  me  by  alms  and  prayer.'' 

With  his  own  hands  he  loosed  the  bonds, 

And  led  the  saint  away, 
Who  in  his  church  baptized  the  king 

And  all  his  house  next  day. 


LEGENDARY  AND   ALLEGORICAL.  I  75 

LAW   AND    LOVE. 
By  L.  D.  S. 

I  GAVE  to  Law  a  task  to  do  — 
A  morning  journeying  to  take  — 
And  whispered  softly:  "  For  my  sake  !  " 
As  sadly  from  his  playmates  he  withdrew. 

Across  his  features  fell  the  shade, 
And  with  no  parting  kiss  he  went ; 
I  stood  and  marked  his  discontent,  — 

Stood  saddened  —  yet  he  had  not  disobeyed. 

I  gave  to  Love  a  task  to  do  — 
A  far-off  journey  in  the  night ; 
Her  upturned  face  grew  strangely  bright, 

Her  parted  lips  smiled  back,  "  Oh,  yes,  for  you  !  " 

Not  even  did  her  singing  cease, 
As  quickly  she  rose  up  from  play, 
And  with  a  soft  kiss  sped  away, 

And  left  my  eyes  all  tears  —  my  heart  all  peace. 


w 


THE    MISTLETOE. 
By  the  Rev.  C.  S.  Percival,  Ph.D. 


HEN  summer  is  green  'mid  the  shadowing  trees. 


Where  fondly  the  mistletoe  clings, 
The  passer  perhaps  in  the  verdure  ne'er  sees 
What  they  hide  with  their  sheltering  wings. 
It  may  flourish  unseen 
'Mid  the  wide-spreading  green 
Of  the  fostering  bough  where  it  springs. 


176  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING  CHURCH. 

But  the  autumn  comes  forth  on  his  mission  of  death 

To  revel  in  summer's  bright  realm.  — 
To  scatter  the  leaves  with  his  pitiless  breath 
And  the  pride  of  the  forest  o'erwhelm  : 
Then  the  mistletoe  green 
In  its  beauty  is  seen, 
Clinging  true  to  its  desolate  elm. 

And  then  't  is  a  joy  in  their  beauty  to  see 

Its  tiny  white  blossoms  appear, 
Which  ripen  to  fruit  while  the  fostering  tree 
In  winter  is  naked  and  sere. 

Thus  the  mistletoe  green, 
In  the  summer  unseen, 
Findeth  life  in  the  death  of  the  year. 

And  thus  in  a  heart  that  is  noble  and  true 

The  rarest  of  virtues  may  dwell 
In  the  time  of  prosperity,  hidden  from  view 
By  that  which  adorneth  it  well ; 
They  may  flourish  unseen, 
Like  the  mistletoe  green 
When  summer  is  clothing  the  dell. 

But  when  the  chill  winds  of  adversity  blow, 

And  the  pleasure  that  earth  can  impart, 
Like  verdure  autumnal,  is  shrouded  in  woe, 
Those  virtues  that  never  depart, 
Like  the  mistletoe  green 
In  the  autumn,  are  seen 
Clinging  true  to  that  desolate  heart. 

When  Fortitude,  Patience,  and  heavenly  Faith 

In  lustre  undying  appear, 
And  life-giving  Hope,  sweetly  smiling  on  Death, 
Points  up  to  a  holier  sphere, 

Like  the  mistletoe  green, 
All  their  beauty  is  seen 
When  the  winter  of  life  draweth  near. 


LEGEM DARY  AND   ALLEGORICAL.  177 

THE    MERCIFUL    SCRIBES. 

By  Flavel  S.  Minks. 

A  ROUND  them,  so  the  Moslems  say, 
^*     Two  angels  guard  by  night  and  day 
To  keep  all  evil  thought  away  ; 
And  if  a  sinful  deed  is  done, 
Before  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
Or,  e'er  they  lay  them  down  to  sleep  — 
He  who  the  daily  sins  doth  keep 
Forbears  to  write,  that  for  the  sin 
The  doer  may  crave  grace  within. 
And  if  the  mortal  doth  repent 
Before  the  appointed  time  is  spent, 
Estig  fourillah  (God  pardons)  then 
Is  the  only  record  of  his  pen. 

And  he  who  standeth  on  the  right 
Doth  all  their  better  deeds  indite 
Before  they  can  be  lost  to  sight ; 
And  if  there  comes  a  goodly  thought, 
Or  action  blest  by  them  is  wrought, 
At  once,  the  angel  on  the  scroll 
Of  Life,  the  record  doth  enroll ; 
Hoping  that  if  death  should  fall 
Upon  them  unawares,  o'er  all 
The  goodness  would  predominate, 
And  earn  for  them  the  joys  elate 
Of  that  life  with  pleasures  laden,  — 
The  fair  land,  Jannat  al  Aden. 


178  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 


TREASURE. 
By  Flora  L.  Stanfield. 

SADLY  the  rich  man  pondered  :  "  How  can  T. 
Knowing  beyond  all  doubt  that  I  must  die. 
Gather  my  wealth  together  in  my  hand, 
So  that,  awaking  in  a  fairer  land, 
It  will  be  there  to  greet  celestial  sight? 
Let  skilful  lapidaries  bring  the  light 
Of  all  their  jewels  to  me  !  "     And  he  chose 
A  brilliant  diamond,  cut  like  a  rose 
And  worth  a  monarch's  ransom.     So  he  died 
And  in  God's  time  awoke,  and  loudly  cried  : 
"  Where  is  my  treasure  ?     It  was  safe  to-day  : 
I  must  have  lost  it  somewhere  on  the  way." 
"  Be  comforted  !  "  up  spoke  a  shining  one,  — 
"  Your  treasure  is  intact ;  each  good  deed  done. 
Each  penny  given  from  your  simple  hoard 
When  you  had  little,  every  struggle  toward 
The  heights  the  blessed  reach,  —  all,  all  are  here.' 
"  But  my  lost  diamond  ! "     "I  surely  fear," 
Said  the  stern  angel,  "  that  the  bit  of  dross 
You  call  a  diamond  will  prove  a  loss 
Beyond  retrieval."     Then  the  rich  man  sighed 
And  turned  away,  but  suddenly  espied 
A  tiny  globe  of  light.     "Ah,  here  !  "  he  said, 
"  Here  is  my  jewel ! "  and  a  glory  spread 
Over  his  visage,  but  the  angel  smiled. 
"  That  is  the  tear-drop  of  a  starving  child 
To  whom  you  ministered  ;  a  banished  tear 
Is  called  a  diamond  by  dwellers  here." 


LEGENDARY  AND  ALLEGORICAL.  179 


THE    MESSENGER    OF    PEACE. 
By  L.  L.  Robinson. 

IN  legends  old  —  or  dreams  —  I  scarce  can  tell, 
But  somewhere  in  the  realm  where  memories  dwell, 
I've  heard  the  story  told,  how  long  ago 
The  mighty  sea,  wild  with  some  hidden  woe, 
Beat  its  great  breast,  and  tossing  on  its  bed, 
Shook  with  deep  sobs  that  filled  the  earth  with  dread. 
God's  eye  beheld  ;  the  conflict  sore  and  long 
Touched  His  great  love,  and  moved  by  pity  strong 
Gently  He  dropped  within  the  seething  whirl, 
From  His  own  Throne,  a  pure  and  priceless  pearl. 
Softly  it  fell,  and  lo  !  with  sudden  thrill, 
Through  all  the  sea  there  breathed  a  "  Peace,  be  still !  " 

And  thus  I  think  it  was  at  Christmas-tide, 

When,  torn  with  sin  and  baffled  human  pride, 

Moaning  in  wild  and  unavailing  pain, 

Tossing  in  struggles  endless,  sore  and  vain, 

Hopeless  and  worn  with  its  unequal  strife, 

A  vast,  despairing  sea,  lay  human  life. 

Then  deep  within  this  restless,  seething  whirl, 

Thy  Life  was  cast,  O  Christ,  a  priceless  Pearl, 

Down  from  the  Father's  Hand  and  Thy  own  Throne, 

Laden  with  balm  which  Thou,  and  Thou  alone 

Could'st  bring  —  Thou  cam'st,  and  lo !   with  deepening 

thrill, 
O'er  all  the  sea  there  fell  a  "  Peace,  be  still !  " 


I  So  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

THE    SERMON    OF    THE    ROSE. 
By  Mary  Livingston. 

WEARY  with  study  and  oppressed  with  care, 
One  of  earth's  children  sank  in  deep  despair 
Upon  a  mossy  bank  where  sweetly  grew 
Some  fragrant  roses  of  the  loveliest  hue. 

And  there  within  the  cool,  sequestered  shade 
He  wept,  as  all  his  life  work  he  surveyed, 
How  every  thought  had  been  for  other's  good, 
Yet  thoughts  and  deeds  had  been  misunderstood. 

The  seed  that  he  had  scattered  o'er  the  land, 
If  grown,  still  brought  no  harvest  to  his  hand ; 
The  end  of  all  was  sorrow  and  regret, 
And  grief  weighed  down  his  eyelids,  and  he  slept. 

The  sun  went  down,  the  night  wind's  gentle  sigh 
Breathed  o'er  the  dreamer  as  it  wandered  by ; 
A  red  rose  bent  its  shining  petals  near, 
And  softly  whispered  in  the  dreamer's  ear : 

"  Oh,  foolish  man  !  why  thus  lament  thy  lot  ? 
The  rose,  too,  shares  it  and  yet  grieveth  not, 
But  gives  its  fragrance  to  the  summer  air, 
Nor  asks  one  blessing  of  the  world  so  fair ; 

"  Content,  indeed,  if  in  some  lonely  hour 

It  touched  one  heart  with  its  unconscious  power  ; 

For  sunshine,  rain,  and  dew,  alike  on  all 

In  tenderness  upon  earth's  children  fall." 

The  dreamer  moved,  a  shower  of  petals  fell 
Upon  his  face,  yet  deep  that  silent  spell ; 
And  all  the  sweet  rose  said  ere  she  was  spent 
Sank  in  his  heart  and  he  arose  content. 


LEGENDARY  AND   ALLEGORICAL.  181 

WAITING. 
By  E.  A.  Clarke. 


HE  stood  in  the  golden  glory 
Of  the  early  morning  light, 
While  away  in  the  dim,  far  distance 
Lay  the  fields  for  the  harvest  white. 

With  eager  heart  he  had  waited 
As  his  comrades  were  called  away, 

And  he  whispered,  "  Surely,  the  Master 
Will  call  me  also  to-day  ! " 

But  the  soft  bright  tints  of  the  morning 
Grew  pale  in  the  glowing  sky, 

And  the  sunbeams'  burning  kisses 
Left  the  leaves  and  the  flowers  dry. 

To  him  there  was  sent  no  message, 
Though  he  waited,  as  oft  before, 

While  others  went  forth  to  garner 
The  harvest's  bountiful  store. 


At  length,  when  the  falling  shadows 
Told  the  close  of  the  weary  day, 

He  followed  the  last,  who  left  him 
WTeeping  along  the  way. 

And  the  messenger,  turning  backward 

Ere  he  entered  the  open  gate, 
Said,  with  sweetest  look  and  accent, 

"  'T  is  the  Master  who  bids  thee  wait !  " 

They  were  not  the  words  he  had  longed  for, 
But  he  bowed  to  the  Masters  will, 

And  with  downcast  eyes  turned  homeward, 
Searching  their  meaning  still. 


182  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

As  slowly  he  walked,  beside  him, 
Growing  close  to  the  busy  street, 

A  lily  he  saw,  dust-sprinkled 
And  trampled  by  careless  feet. 

With  a  feeling  of  tender  pity, 
He  knelt  by  the  fragile  thing, 

Its  parched  leaves  bathed  with  water 
Pure  and  cold  from  a  wayside  spring. 

And  all  through  the  harvest  season 
He  watched  it  with  loving  care, 

Till  at  last  a  pure  white  blossom 
Crowned  it  with  beauty  rare. 

And  he  knelt  with  the  happy  reapers, 
All  bringing  their  sheaves  complete, 

With  bowed  head  placing  his  lily 
Low  at  the  Master's  feet. 

And  then  there  arose  a  murmur 
As  the  reapers  about  him  pressed  ; 

He  raised  his  eyes,  the  fair  blossom 
Was  placed  on  the  Saviour's  breast! 


DISCORDS. 
By  Flora  L.  Stanfield. 

AN  earnest  pupil,  wearily  intent 
Upon  the  measures  of  a  little  song ; 
A  patient  teacher,  with  dim  vision  bent 

Upon  the  slender  hands  that  move  along, 
Interpreting  vagaries  which  were  born 
In  a  musician's  heart  one  happy  morn. 


LEGENDARY  AND  ALLEGORICAL.  183 

"  Songs  Without  Words  "  upon  the  printed  page 
Speak  of  the  master  dear  beyond  compare  ; 

Songs  without  words,  like  wild  birds  in  a  cage, 
Flutter  and  fall  upon  the  drowsy  air  ; 

The  reason  why  the  teacher's  sight  is  dim 

Is  that  one  day  such  songs  were  sung  to  him. 

A  tiny  frown  upon  the  pupil's  brow, 

A  crash  upon  the  old  piano's  keys  ; 
"  There  is  none  wise  enough  to  tell  me  how 

To  find  the  harmony  in  chords  like  these  ; 
Poor  Mendelssohn  was  surely  half  insane 
To  spoil  with  faulty  tones  so  fine  a  strain  .'  " 

••  My  child,"  the  teacher  answered,  "'t  is  the  ears 
We  listen  with  that  makes  the  music  sweet ; 

He  with  untutored  senses  never  hears 

The  tones  which  make  the  melody  complete. 

This  rule  remember  for  your  future  good  : 

Grand  harmonies  are  discords  understood. *' 

Our  lives,  like  measures  of  the  master's  song, 
Have  jarring  notes,  at  which  we,  too,  exclaim, 

"  God  did  not  fashion  sounds  so  wildly  wrong 
As  are  these  discords,  and  He  will  not  blame 

The  one  who  sees  no  possible  design 

In  such  a  wasted  life  as  this  of  mine  " 

We  tread  a  flinty  path  and  cannot  find 

The  beauty  in  the  mystery  of  pain ; 
Perchance  the  dust  of  labor  makes  us  blind, 

We  miss  the  road  and  find  it  not  again  ; 
And  when  the  angels  tell  us  of  the  way. 
We  murmur,  "  Discord  !  "  at  the  words  they  say. 

The  tender  counsel  of  an  anxious  friend, 
The  calm  reproof  in  phrase  of  Holy  Writ, 

The  pleading  eyes  of  one  who  would  amend 

The  tangled  stitches  our  weak  hands  have  knit,  — 

M  Songs  without  words  "  upon  the  air  they  fall, 

Words  without  song  we  call  them,  one  and  all. 


184  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

It  may  be  that  we  shall  not  comprehend 
The  subtle  chords  which  so  offend  us  here, 

Until  we  loose  our  sandals  as  we  wend 
Our  way  to  Paradise,  its  portals  near, 

Where  many  a  wandering  minstrel  wakes  to  find 

That  he  has  left  earth's  discords  far  behind. 


THE    LOVE-TOKEN. 

By  L.  L.  Robinson. 

A  CLOUD  had  o'er  my  spirit  come,  — 
A  cloud  that  darkened  all  my  light, 
And  blotting  out  each  star  of  hope, 

Enwrapped  my  soul  in  rayless  night ; 
And  still  it  deepened  day  by  day, 
Till  God  Himself  seemed  far  away. 

Alone  I  groped  amid  the  gloom, 
Alone  amid  the  darkness  drear  ; 

For  though  I  knew  that  God  was  true, 
I  could  not  feel  His  presence  near; 

And  human  hearts,  alas  !  are  weak, 

And  yearn  to  touch  the  Hand  they  seek. 

"  O  Thou  who  nearest  prayer,"  I  cried, 
"  Vouchsafe  my  doubting  heart  to  cheer 

Some  token  send,  however  small, 

That  I  may  know  Thou  still  art  near,  — 

Some  gift  so  truly  Thine  alone 

That  I  may  know  it  as  Thine  own." 

In  half-unconscious,  nameless  hope, 

My  trembling  hand  outstretched  to  clasp 

The  mystic  gift  my  yearning  heart 

So  vaguely  sought  and  longed  to  grasp, 

And  lo  !  amid  a  strange,  deep  calm, 

Some  gift  seemed  laid  within  my  palm. 


LEGENDARY  AND   ALLEGORICAL.  185 

With  heart  that  almost  ceased  to  beat, 

With  trembling  joy  akin  to  fear, 
I  raised  my  bowed  and  drooping  head 

To  look  upon  the  token  dear : 
But  —  oh,  for  joy  so  newly  born  !  — 
Behold  my  gift,  a  cruel  tJior?i  ! 

With  bitter  cry  my  sobbing  heart 

Sank  crushed,  as  'neath  a  sudden  blow. 

Was  this  the  answer  to  my  prayer, 
Which  only  plead  His  love  to  know  ? 

"  O  God,  Thou  mightst  have  spared  me  scorn  ! 

I  asked  for  love,  —  behold,  a  thorn  !  " 

But  lo  !  amid  the  deepening  gloom, 
A  low,  sweet  voice  broke  on  my  ear. 

"  My  child,"  it  said,  "  didst  thou  not  ask 
Some  token  of  My  Presence  near,  — 

Some  token  crave  with  pleading  moan 

Which  thou  shouldst  know  as  Mine  alone  ? 

"  Then  see  !  — from  out  the  chaplet  worn 

On  my  own  brow,  for  love  of  thee 
I  've  plucked  this  one  of  many  thorns, 

Which  thou  shalt  keep  for  love  of  Me. 
Thou  knowest  on  earth  no  wealth  I  own ; 
But  this,  at  least,  was  mine  alone." 

Could  I  have  dreamt  —  ah  !  could  it  be  ?  — 

That  in  my  poor  and  lonely  room 
My  Saviour  thus  had  really  come 

To  banish  all  my  doubt  and  gloom  ? 
Ah,  yes  !     The  struggling  beams  of  morn 
Fell  softly  on  His  gift,  —  my  thorn. 

And  so  I  keep  it  hid  away, 

Too  sacred  far  for  careless  eyes, 
Deep  in  my  heart,  where  He  alone 

Can  see  where  thus  enshrined  it  lies  ; 
And  when  new  clouds  grow  dark  and  drear, 
Its  touch  assures  me  He  is  near. 


1 86  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING  CHURCH. 

0 

THE    LESSON    OF    THE    FLOWERS. 
By  Flora  L.  Stan  field. 

I  CLAIM  the  right  to  be  the  first  to  greet  Him," 
Sang  the  proud  rose,  her  blushing  cheek  aglow ; 
"  Though  every  flower  that  blooms  be  there  to  meet  Him, 

He  would  my  absence  know. 
My  color  tells  anew  the  thrilling  story 

Of  martyrs  going  smiling  to  their  death, 
My  perfume  typefies  the  fragrant  glory 
Hid  in  the  censer's  breath. 
Oh,  let  me  at  His  feet  my  love  disclose, 
Because  I  am  a  rose." 

Then  spoke  the  purple  flower  of  recollection  : 

"  A  pansy  is  the  blossom  He  would  see, 
And  in  the  morning  of  the  resurrection, 

His  thoughts  will  turn  to  me. 
My  very  name  will  win  the  priceless  treasure 

Of  praise  from  Him  who  is  the  world's  heart's-ease. 
That  day  you  give  to  Him  unstinted  measure 

Of  love,  upon  your  knees, 
Oh,  let  me,  though  of  beauties  I  have  least, 

Be  first  to  grace  His  feast." 

••  I  have  no  boon  to  crave,"  said  a  white  lily, 

"  Nor  any  need  to  claim  my  rightful  place." 
Her  cheeks  were  pale,  her  mien  and  accents  chilly, 

A  cloud  was  on  her  face. 
"  What  flower  should  shine  in  all  this  fair  adorning 

If  not  the  one  which  mortals  name  the  pure? 
So,  on  the  brightness  of  the  Easter  morning. 

My  privilege  is  sure." 
Her  scorn  the  heart's-ease  stunned;  her  hauteur  froze 

The  ardor  of  the  rose. 


LEGENDARY  AND   ALLEGORICAL.  187 

O  rose,  with  love  in  each  red  petal  blooming ! 
O  pansies,  with  your  faces  washed  in  dew ! 
O  lily,  whom  to  praise  would  be  presuming ! 

He  needs  each  one  of  you ! 
Love  is  of  earth  if  purity  forsake  it, 
And  purity  is  cold  if  lacking  love, 
And  purest  love  needs  grateful  thoughts  to  make  it 

Worthy  of  place  above. 
So  cease  your  strife,  and  all  your  beauty  bring 

To  greet  the  risen  King ! 


PEARLS. 
By  Callie  L.  Bonney. 

YOU  may  not  see  these  jewels  rare, 
Amid  the  braids  of  sunlit  hair. 
In  beauty  gleam  ; 
They  deck  not  hands  with  queenly  grace 
Xor  add  a  charm  to  patient  face, 
So  like  a  dream. 

With  radiant  lustre  half  divine. 

Her  pearls  elsewhere  in  beauty  shine, 

Bright,  fair,  alway : 
One,  but  the  prayer  of  little  child, 
Another,  life  from  sin  beguiled 

By  her  sweet  way. 

The  strife  and  pain  her  love  hath  stilled, 
The  lives  her  ministry  hath  filled. 

With  blessing  fair,  — 
These  are  her  pearls,  that  softly  glow: 
Could  any  jewel  casket  show 

Us  gems  so  rare  ? 


LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 


AN    AUTUMN    VOICE. 
By  Grace  C. 

THE  summer  glow  has  faded  from 
The  garden,  field,  and  lane : 
The  blossoms  from  their  sleep  of  death 
No  sun  shall  wake  again. 

Not  all  deserted  are  the  haunts 
Of  summer  rose  and  spray  ; 

The  autumn  blooming  lingers  yet 
To  cheer  the  short'ning  day. 


Yet  whence  the  charm  of  marigold, 

Or  china  aster  gay  ? 
Chrysanthemum  or  hollyhock, 

The  dahlia's  bright  array  ? 


Or  who  would  seek  the  golden  rod, 

Royal  in  robe  and  name, 
Yet  humblest  in  its  woodland  life  ? 

What  magic  doth  it  claim? 

The  autumn  blooming,  whence  its  power  ? 

What  lesson  doth  it  teach  ? 
Sweet  summer  voices  now  are  mute,  — 

Have  these  no  mystic  speech  ? 

Less  fair  and  fragrant  though  they  seem, 

These  later  autumn  flowers, 
They  bear  a  message,  deep  as  sweet, 

To  cheer  life's  shaded  hours. 


The  spirit  which  it  breathes  is  hope, 

Triumphant  over  loss ; 
Its  promise  to  the  victor,  life,  — 

The  crown  beyond  the  cross. 


LEGENDARY  AND   ALLEGORICAL.  189 

Enduring  strength,  abiding  peace, 
The  soul  shall  gain  through  gloom  ; 

Earth's  buried  hopes  immortal  rise, — 
Thus  speaks  the  autumn  bloom. 

Though  darker,  sadder,  grow  the  days, 

It  lingers  still  to  bless, 
Its  mission  one  of  peace  and  hope, 

Its  might  God's  tenderness. 


THE    SHULAMITE. 
By  Sidney  McLean. 

THE  king  said  to  a  peasant  maid  : 
"  Come,  thou,  and  be  my  love. 
The  best  in  all  my  Court  so  fair  — 
Apparel  rich  and  jewels  rare  — 
Are  thine,  my  love,  my  dove ! 

'•  Come,  leave  thy  walks  through  field  and  glen  ! 

Come,  leave  thy  shepherd  boy  ! 
Thy  face,  so  full  of  beauty's  force, 
Will  be  a  never-ending  source 

To  me  of  earthly  joy." 

•;  No,  no  !  "  she  answered,  sadly  sweet ; 

"  Far  rather  would  I  go 
With  him  I  love  among  the  lilies,  — 
To  dwell  with  him  among  sweet  lilies  ; 

My  heart  is  where  they  grow." 

The  king  was  much  amazed  at  this,  — 

He  could  not  understand 
Why  from  his  love  she  turned  aside 
To  be  a  simple  shepherd's  bride, 

And  join  his  lowly  band. 


190  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

But  prayers  and  tears  inclined  his  heart 

To  send  her  on  her  way.  — 
With  mind  so  pure  and  love  so  meet 
To  dwell  among  the  lilies  sweet. 
In  love's  most  mystic  sway. 

The  prince  of  this  world  beckons  us 

To  come  and  be  his  bride. 
Oh,  listen  not !     Thy  beacon  bright 
Is  Christ  among  the  lilies  white  ; 
Thy  place  is  by  his  side. 


LIFE. 
By  Maria  Batterham  Lindesey. 

HOW  beautiful  is  life  when  the  first  dawning 
Touches  the  sunrise  hills, 
And  all  the  glint  and  glow  of  earlv  morning: 
The  wide  east  fills  ! 

How  beautiful  is  life  at  noontide's  hour. 

When,  glowing  like  the  sun, 
Man's  widening  pathway,  lit  with  wondrous  power, 

Is  mapped  and  run ! 

How  beautiful  is  life  when  eventide 

Is  stealing  softly  on, 
And  sunset's  gates  are  flinging  open  wide 
Till  day  is  gone  ! 

How  beautiful  is  life  when  mystic  night 

Disrobes  her  starry  breast. 
Gleaming  with  other  worlds'  far-distant  light 

And  man  must  rest  ! 


t^ocms  of  draper  anfc  praise. 


THE    WORLD    IS    FAIR. 
By  Emma  Sophie  Stilwell. 

WE  will  ne'er  gie  o'er  that  the  warl  is  fair. 
An'  life  well  worth  the  livin\ 
That  there  's  more  o'  joy  than  o'  carking  care. 
An'  o'  pleasure  than  o'  grievin' ! 

The  birds  sing  blithe  an'  the  children  play 
In  the  glad,  glad  spring  together : 

An'  the  trees  in  the  wind  hae  a  merry  way 
In  the  bright  or  the  gruesome  weather. 


An'  hear  the  trills  and  throbs  o'  the  brook. 

As  it  quavers  its  bass  o'er  the  pebbles. 
Or  gies  out  a  shower  o'  silver  notes 


In  wiidrim 


warbling  trebles. 


Then  the  liquid  idyl  of  sweet  content 
That  the  pine  to  the  sun  rehearses, 

Rare  pentameters  of  orient  rhyme, 
Rich  incense-breathing  verses. 


192  LYRICS  OF    THE   LIVING   CHURCH. 

An'  the  rose  with  dear,  sweet  lips  o'  bloom, 

Blushin'  in  silent  speeches 
O'  love  an'  praise  to  the  Maker  o'  a*. 

Such  a  bonny  lesson  teaches  ! 

Then  we  '11  ne'er  gie  o'er  that  the  war]  is  fair, 

An'  life  well  worth  the  livin'. 
While  bird  an'  bough  an;  brook  an'  air 

Are  grateful  praise  outgivin'. 


THE    GREAT    CHANGE. 
By  the  Rev.  John  May. 

BE  Thou  my  light  when  night  prevails, 
My  solace  in  each  sore  distress. 
My  Friend  when  earthly  friendship  fails, 
My  Guide  across  this  wilderness. 

As  creatures  whiten  to  the  snow. 
My  soul,  reposing  at  Thy  feet, 

Shall  pure  and  ever  purer  grow 
Until  the  new  man  is  complete. 

I  would  be  near  Thee  if  Thou  wilt,  — 
Be  still,  and  wait,  and  grow  like  Thee ; 

For  Thou  art  goodness  —  I  am  guilt. 
But  Thou  canst  take  the  sin  from  me. 

1  want  to  stay  beside  Thee.  Lord. 

And  hold  Thy  hand,  and  see  Thy  face, 
To  hear  Thy  lightest-whispered  word. 

To  drop  the  sin,  and  grasp  the  grace. 

I  want  the  old,  the  bad,  to  die ; 

I  want  the  new,  the  good,  to  grow.  — 
Till  I  become  another  I, 

And  Thou  alone  canst  make  me  so. 


PRAYER   AND  PRAISE.  193 

I  want  to  do  each  thing  1  do 

Before  Thy  face,  Thy  smile  to  see; 

To  hate  the  false,  to  love  the  true, 

And  be  what  Thou  wouldst  have  me  be. 

Ah  !  weak  am  I.  Xor  can  I  keep 
This  place  beside  Thee  but  a  day: 

My  hands  hang  feeble  and  I  sleep 

When  I  would  work,  or  watch,  or  pray. 

O  Love  divine  !  low  at  Thy  feet 

I  prostrate  fall.     Hold  Thou  me  fast, 

Change,  cleanse,  re-fashion  me  complete, 
And  fit  me  for  Thy  home  at  last. 


w 


CHRISTE,    AUDI. 

Bv  The  Rev.  J.  R.  Newell. 

HEX  the  morning  floods  the  sky, 
When  the  noonday  sun  is  high. 


When  the  calm  of  eve  is  nigh, 
Hear  us,  holy  Jesu  ! 

When  our  daily  task  begins, 
And  our  toil  its  guerdon  wins, 
Oh  !  despite  our  many  sins, 
Hear  us,  holy  Jesu  ! 

While  we  labor  to  acquire 
That  which  perisheth,  inspire 
Something  nobler,  something  higher 
Hear  us,  holy  Jesu  ! 

And  when  ends  our  toil,  and  we 
Mingle  in  eternity, 
May  we  find  ourselves  with  Thee  : 
Hear  us,  holy  Jesu  ! 
13 


194  LYRICS  OF   THE  LIVIXG   CHURCH. 

THINE    THE    POWER. 
By  Frances  E    Gordon. 

FATHER,  Thy  children  own  Thy  boundless  sway 
With  common  glad  accord, 
When,  asking  for  our  daily  bread,  we  say 
Thine  is  the  power,  O  Lord  ! 

Thine  is  the  power  to  give  unto  Thine  own 

All  riches  earth  doth  yield, 
All  perfect  gifts  that  from  Thy  hand  alone, 

Come  with  sweet  promise  sealed. 

Thine  is  the  power  by  which  we  walk  the  earth 

Cheered  by  hope's  gladdening  ray  : 
The  while  the  happy  spirits,  Love  and  Mirth, 

Go  with  us  on  our  way. 

Thine  is  the  gracious  power  to  satisfy, 

If  so  it  be  Thy  will, 
Beyond  our  utmost  thought,  each  pleading  cry. 

Our  heart's  desire  fulfil ! 

Thine  is  the  power  to  make  Thy  soldiers  fight 

Victorious  over  all ; 
So  strong  within  Thy  panoply  of  light, 

We  cannot  faint  nor  fall. 

Thy  greater  power  can  help  us  when  we  meet 

Our  foes  upon  the  field, 
Wounded  and  spent,  to  rise  from  sore  defeat, 

To  fall,  but  not  to  yield. 

Thine,  Thine  the  power  to  bring  us  even  now 

Where  we  have  longed  to  be  ; 
Where,  with  Thy  new  name  written  on  our  brow, 

We  shall  Thy  glory  see. 


PRAYER  AND   PRAISE.  195 

Yea,  Thine  the  power  to  give  these  tired  feet  rest 

Within  Thy  shining  walls. 
Beside  the  sea  upon  whose  crystal  breast 

The  song  of  triumph  falls. 

And  Thine  the  power  to  let  Thy  Presence  so 

With  peace  our  spirits  fill, 
That  waking  here  or  there  we  scarce  may  know. 

It  is  Thy  kingdom  still. 

Thine  is  the  power  to  know  our  every  need.  — 

The  power  to  choose  and  see 
Which  path  of  sorrow  or  of  joy  will  lead 

Thy  children  nearest  Thee. 

O  Thou,  who  hast  all  power  in  earth  and  heaven  ! 

Pour  on  our  souls  Thy  light ;  , 

Help  us  to  take  whate'er  Thy  love  has  given 

And  use  Thy  gifts  aright. 

Oh,  let  us  trust  Thy  boundless  power,  each  day, 

To  send  us  what  is  best; 
To  lead  us  safely  by  the  chosen  way 

Unto  Thy  perfect  rest. 


LONGING. 
By  Ella  Mooney 


Out  of  the  depths  hare  I  called  unto  Thee,  O  Lord.     Ps.  cxxx. 
I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from  whence  cometh  my 
help.     Ps.  cxxi. 

OUT  of  the  depths,  unto  the  hills  I  call, 
With  bowed  face : 
"  The  depths,"  my  home,  "unto  the  hills,"  my  All, 
Thy  dwelling-place. 


190  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

What  figure  could  the  holy  singer  use. 

More  true  indeed  ! 
The  mount  is  Thine  :  the  valley  mine,  whose  dews 

My  being  feed. 

0  wondrous  Sun  !  to  Thy  transcendent  height 

My  spirit  take ! 
Oh,  draw  me  who  am  parched  with  thirst  Thy  might 
Alone  can  slake ! 

1  long  to  stretch  these  folded  wings :  I  feel 

A  life  within 
Awaiting  but  Thy  call,  to  break  the  seal 
Impressed  by  sin. 

As  Thou  to  Lazarus  saidst  in  time  of  yore. 

••  Come  forth  !  "  so  - 
To  my  imprisoned  soul,  and  she  shall  soar 

To  realms  of  day. 

Only  a  touch,  a  look  of  Thine.  O  Ki: 

Transformeth  me 
Into  a  beautiful  and  holy  thing, 

And  worthy  Thee. 

Whene'er  I  pass  in  worldly  courts  a  day, 

With  smile  for  smile : 
Joining  the  chorus  of  her  witching  lay 

Time  to  begu 

At  setting  sun  I  am  awearied  quite, 

And  ill  at  ease  : 
A  lonely  heart-sickness  steals  on  with  night, 

Naught  will  appe. 

Until  I  humbly  turn  again  to  Thee 

My  Lover  true; 
Ah !  then  what  comfort,  rest,  what  ecstasy. 

Are  born  anew ! 


PRAYER  AND  PRAISE. 

I  must  be  thine.     Naught  satisfies,  below, 

The  craving  soul. 
Chain  the  immortal  in  "the  depths?"     Ah,  no! 

The  height,  her  goal. 

And  yet,  albeit  I  see  in  visions  rare 

My  mountain  home, 
And  hear  the  spirits  of  her  purer  air 

All  bid  me  ,;  come  "  — 

I  have  no  power  to  climb  alone ;  aid  me, 

O  Friend  Divine  ! 
That  I  may  soar  "'unto  the  hills  ; :'  and  be 

The  glory  Thine. 


97 


A   THANKSGIVING. 
By  L.  P.  S. 

I  AM  so  blest  —  I  am  so  blest 
By  Thee,  my  Friend,  my  King: 
My  eyes  grow  dim  with  thankful  tears 
That  gather  as  I  sing. 

No  day  but  shines  Thy  sun,  within 

A  sky  of  cloudless  blue  ; 
No  path  but  flowers  spring  up  to  greet 

.Ale  with  their  shy  —  "  For  you  !  " 

No  eve  but  brings  its  soothing  peace, 

Though  shadows  lengthen  fast ; 
No  night  but  whisper  stars  to  me, 

"  There  shall  be  rest  at  last !  " 

Therefore,  dear  Friend,  once  crowned  with  thorns. 

Now  crowned  with  power,  my  King! 
Thou  knowest  my  thanks  are  true,  although 

Tears  gather  as  I  sing. 


198 


LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING  CHURCH. 


A   GRADUAL.1 
By  the  Rev.  Nelson  Ayres. 

PRAISE  to  Thee,  Lord, 
praise  be  forever  given  ! 
Praise  on  earth  !  Praise,  too, 

in  the  highest  heaven  ! 
Praise  for  grace  vouchsafed, 
and  for  sins  forgiven, 
Glorious  Jesus. 

Praise     for    words,     grand, 
sweet,  of  apostles'  writing, 

Shining    truth-beams,    path- 
way to  heaven  lighting. 

"Other  sheep,"  long  lost,  to 
the  fold  inviting, 
Merciful  Jesus. 

Praise  we  sing,  high  praise, 
at  the  Gospel's  reading, 

While   we    see    Thee,    thou- 
sands with  manna  feeding, 

Thee  with  blood-mark'd  foot- 
steps, to  glory  leading, 
Suffering  Jesus. 

1    In  Sapphic  strophes. 


GRANT    US    THY    PEACE. 
By  E.  M.  W. 

FAR  in  the  west  the  day  is  gently  fading, 
Dark  fall  the  shadows  of  the  evening  time, 
A  holy  calm  all  nature  is  pervading, 

Soft  on  the  ear  sings  out  the  vesper  chime  — 
Grant  us  Thy  Peace. 

Lord,  since  the  morn,  our  erring  feet  have  wandered, 
Ear  from  the  way  in  sorrow  and  in  pain, 

With  broken  vows,  and  golden  moments  squandered. 
Weary  and  sad,  we  come  to  Thee  again  — 
Grant  us  Thv  Peace. 


Thou,  whose  kind  heart  has  throbbed  with  mortal  anguish, 
O'er  loved  ones  gone  and  sacred  trust  betrayed, 

Thou  will  not  leave  our  souls  in  grief  to  languish  ; 

Thou  know'st  our  needs,  withhold  not  then  Thine  aid  — 
Grant  us  Thy  Peace. 


2  00  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Dark  grows  the  night,  the  weary  world  is  sleeping. 
Yet  darkness  lurks  within  its  curtained  fold ; 

May  angel  bands  their  loving  vigils  keeping. 
Grant  us,  as  erst  Thy  faithful  saint  of  old  — 
Grant  us  Thy  Peace. 

Thou,  whose  dear  feet  have  wandered,  torn  and  bleeding. 

Thro'  desert  wild,  and  mountains'  rugged  way. 
We  should  be  lost  but  for  Thy  gracious  leading ; 

Guide  us  thro"  darkness  to  the  perfect  day  — 
Grant  us  Thv  Peace. 


A    HEART-GARDE X. 
Bv  Emma  Sophie  Stilwell. 

CLEANSE  this  heart.  O  Lord  !  but  now 
Roused  from  wasteful  slumber : 
Plant  the  blossoms  of  Thy  grace 
Where  but  weeds  encumber. 

Let  self-love  be  banished  quite. 

Root  out  jealous  fear, 
And  let  anger's  flame  be  quenched 

By  sweet  pity's  tear. 

Thou  hast  taught  that  gentleness 

Is  the  best  reproving, 
Then  let  censure  yield  heart-room 

L  nto  ruthful  loving. 

Then  will  love  for  humankind 

Spring  and  bud  and  flower. 
Making  sweet  to  all  around 

Morn  and  evening  hour. 


PRAYER  AND   PRAISE.  201 

LET   THEM    GIVE    THANKS. 
By  E.  S. 

IF  they  give  thanks  who  have  known  no  weeping, 
Have  felt  no  fear,  and  have  wrought  no  sin, 
Their  first  estate,  unfallen,  keeping, 

Standing  the  light  of  their  God  within, 
Oh,  what  should  they  give  who  from  weary  strife 
Have  entered  the  gate  of  eternal  life  ! 

If  they  give  thanks  on  whose  baby  faces 
No  shame  hath  passed,  whom  no  sin  defiled, 

Passing  yet  pure  from  love's  embraces 
To  His  arms,  who  was  once  a  little  child. 

What  thanks  should  they  give  whose  crimson  stain 

Is  washed  in  His  blood  who  for  them  was  slain  ? 

If  they  give  thanks  who  have  served  Him  ever, 
From  childhood's  morning  through  manhood's  day, 

Their  life  flowing  on  like  some  peaceful  river 
That  knows  no  haste,  and  makes  no  delay, 

What  thanks  shall  they  give  who  have  hardly  won 

Pardon  and  peace  e'er  their  day  is  done  ? 

Let  them  give  thanks  whom  the  Lord,  in  pity, 

Found  in  the  wilderness,  far  astray, 
And  safely  led  to  His  holy  City, 

With  fire  by  night,  and  with  cloud  by  day ; 
Now,  safely  within  the  golden  wall, 
Let  them  at  His  feet  adoring  fall ! 

For  love  that  forgave,  restored,  defended, 
For  grace  that  renewed,  sustained,  and  fed, 

For  the  watchful  care  that  their  steps  attended, 
For  the  heavenly  hope  round  their  pathway  shed, 

For  the  life  He  gave,  and  the  death  He  died, 

Let  them  give  thanks  to  the  Crucified  ! 


■02  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

FROM    A    HAPPY    HEART. 

By  J.  C.  S. 

In  all  time  of  our  prosperity,  Good  Lord,  deliver  us. 

NOT  with  a  soul  with  tempests  shaken 
While  tossing  on  life's,  troubled  sea, 
Not  with  a  heart  oppressed,  forsaken, 

Come  I,  O  gracious  Lord,  to  Thee,  — 
No  load  of  care,  no  hidden  grief, 
Moves  me  to  seek  Thy  kind  relief. 

Nay,  't  is  the  mercies  that  surround  me, — 
The  sunbeams  bright,  the  blossoms  fair, 

These  loving  hearts  I  see  around  me. 
This  wish  fulfilled,  that  answered  prayer, 

Bright  memories,  and  hopes  more  sweet,  — 

These  bring  me  to  Thy  sacred  feet. 

I  ask  not  now  for  strength  in  sorrow, 
Or  comfort  for  an  aching  heart. 

In  fear  lest  thou  should'st  bid  to-morrow 
These  blessings  suddenly  depart; 

Ah,  no  !  — the  grace  for  which  I  pray 

Is  to  bear  joy  aright  to-day; 

To  take  each  separate  gift  or  pleasure 

As  token  of  that  tender  care 
Which  I  can  never  fully  measure, 

Yet  know  surrounds  me  everywhere, 
And,  though  my  sunshine  turn  to  night, 
Still  guides  my  wavering  steps  aright. 

O  Father,  let  no  bliss  thou  sendest, 
Fill  utterly  this  wayward  heart ; 

And  while  I  take  the  joy  Thou  lendest 
Make  me  content  therewith  to  part, 

When  Thou  shalt  bid  me  yield  to  Thee 

E'en  that  which  choicest  seems  to  me ; 


PRAYER  AND   PRAISE.  203 

And  keep  before  my  spirit  ever 

The  sense  of  my  unworthiness, 
For  what  I  am,  whom  thou  dost  never 

Forget  to  comfort  and  to  bless ! 
Yes,  let  me  always  humbled  be 
By  each  bright  gift  Thou  sendest  me. 


"WE    WOULD    SEE    JESUS/' 

By  the  Rev.  J.  Anketell 

'•  "\T  7E  would  see  Jesus! "     Dark  the  shadows  gather, 

V  V       The  lingering  light  of  day  is  almost  done  ; 
We  raise  our  weeping  eyes  to  Thee,  O  Father, 
And  pray  Thee :  Manifest  to  us  Thy  Son  ! 

••  We  would  see  Jesus  '  "     Angry  shouts  defy  Him, 
Proud  science  curls  the  lip  at  One  it  scorns ; 

Blind  Pharisee  and  Sadducee  deny  Him, 
Wearing  another  cruel  crown  of  thorns. 

"We  would  see  Jesus !  "     Now  His  face  is  hidden, 
The  clouds  receive  Him  up  to  realms  of  light ; 

Yet  in  the  Sacrament  His  Love  has  bidden, 
He  stands  revealed  by  faith  to  mortal  sight. 

"  We  would  see  Jesus  !  "     Haste  the  happy  morning, 
That  gives  bright  sunlight  to  a  sou!  redeemed. 

Long  have  we  watched  through  darkness  for  its  dawning 
Oh,  long  and  dreary  has  our  vigil  seemed  ! 

"  We  would  see  Jesus  !  "     Mocked  and  in  derision 
Our  eyes  have  seen  Thee,  scourged  and  crucified  ; 

Hasten,  O  Lord,  the  Beatific  Vision, 

That  sees  Thee  seated  at  Thy  Father's  side  ! 


204  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING  CHURCH. 

WORK    AND    PRAYER. 
By  L.  D.  S. 

FIRST    VOICE. 

NOW  shineth  the  rising  sun  into  thy  bower  ; 
Work  :     Day  calleth  loudly  on  thee  for  thy  task; 
Thy  brain  with  its  thought,  thine  arm  with  its  power, 

Await  but  to  do  what  thy  spirit  shall  ask; 
Fuse  thought,  power,  and  love  in  the  work  of  the  hour. 

SECOND    VOICE. 

Ah  !  brighter  is  God  than  the  sun  in  his  might. 

Pray  !     Souls  are  not  living  that  breathe  not  in  prayer 
Thy  life  is  a  vapor,  swift  passing  from  sight. 

The  soul  never  dieth  ;  let  that  be  thy  care, 
Lest,  affrighted,  thou  hear  thy  Lord's  voice  at  the  night. 

FIRST    VOICE. 

Time  spent  on  the  knees  is  time  lost  in  the  race. 

Work  !     He  loves  not  the  idler ;  and  bread  must  be  got. 
Thy  children's  low  cry,  the  tears  on  the  face 

Of  the  wife  who  bemoaneth  thy  labor  forgot  — 
Art  thou  deaf?     Art  thou  blind?     Seeking  phantom-like 
grace  ? 

SECOND   VOICE. 

Harsher  sound  in  thine  ear  will  the  dread  wailing  be 
Of  children  thrust  out  from  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

They  who  wait  on  the  Lord  e'er  they  perish  shall  see 
The  ravens  bring  food,  rocks  by  water-springs  riven. 

Love  for  children  and  wife  !     Did  not  Christ  die  for  thee  ? 

THIRD   VOICE. 

Peace,  ye  wranglers  !     Why  part  ye  what  God  hath  made 
one  ? 

For  He  that  gave  prayer  is  the  same  that  gave  toil; 
Therefore  pray  from  the  morn  till  the  light  is  no  more  ; 

Yet  no  moment  from  work  let  thy  tired  hand  recoil 
Till  the  task  that  was  ^l'ven  at  even  is  o'er. 


PRAYER  AND   PRAISE. 


205 


Prayer  is  work;    and   no  work  without   prayer  shall   be 
blest. 
Work  is  prayer,  if  for  Jesus  our  Saviour  *t  is  done. 
Nerve   thine  arm  with  thy  prayer,  let  thy  work  fire  thy 
breast, 
And  when  into  thy  bower  slants  the  slow  setting  sun 
Thy  soul  and  thy  body  shall  find  each  its  rest. 


C^ggijljHW 


J^ocms  of  Meditation, 


GRASPING    AT    SHADOWS. 
By  Irene  Griswold. 

SUCH  a  beautiful  spray  ! 
Just  before  me  it  lay 
On  the  walk  that  was  flooded  with  light, 
One  would  scarcely  believe 
That  the  touch  could  deceive, 
So  real  it  was  to  the  sight. 

Yet,  on  stooping  to  grasp, 

It  eluded  my  clasp, 
Though  the  form  was  so  clearly  defined 

That  I  certainly  knew 

From  the  shadow  in  view 
The  substance  was  somewhere  behind. 

Through  the  light  of  God's  love 

The  things  from  above 
Cast  beautiful  shadows  below. 

These  shadows  I  see,  — 

They  prove  clearly  to  me 
The  substance  is  somewhere,  I  know. 


208  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

WASTED. 
By  Flora  L.  Stan  field. 

DEAR  little  hour !  if  I  could  call  you  back, 
I  would  not  chase  a  vagrant  butterfly 
And  let  your  blessings  slip  so  idly  by. 
Oh,  come  again  adown  the  year's  swift  track ! 
Xo  care  of  mine  shall  your  sweet  moments  lack 
If  you  will  but  come  back  ! 

Calm  little  day  !  why  did  you  fade  so  soon  ? 
A  day  is  long,  I  thought,  and  so  I  dreamed 
Away  the  golden  hours  ;  it  only  seemed 

A  moment  till  the  bells  rang  in  the  noon ; 

A  moment  more,  and  God  hung  out  the  moon. 
Why  did  you  fade  so  soon  ? 

Glad  little  year!  where  has  your  brightness  fled: 
I  prized  you  ;  but  I  said,  "  So  many  days 
Make  up  the  year  that  I  will  tread  the  ways 
The  world  has  marked.'1    But  when  with  heart  that  bled 
I  sought  my  little  year  —  my  year  was  dead  ! 
Where  had  its  brightness  fled? 

So  now  I  hasten  up  and  down  the  street, 
And  call  to  each  and  all,  "  Oh  !  can  you  say 
If  any  year  of  mine  has  strayed  this  way? 

Or  if  a  wandering  day  or  hour  you  meet, 

I  pray  you  tell  me,  and  I  '11  run  to  greet 
Its  joys  with  flying  feet." 

And  thus  I  look  for  hour  and  day  and  year 

That  I  have  missed  so  long ;  perchance  to  some 
Unlooked-for  place  each  waiting  one  will  come 
To  greet  me ;  so  I  will  be  patient  here, 
And  pray  that  your  lost  glory  may  be  near, 
Dear  hour,  calm  day,  glad  year  ! 


POEMS  OF  MEDITATION.  2 09 

THE    ORGANIST. 
By  Edward  Henry  Eckel 

HE  sits  him  down  at  twilight  hour 
Before  the  ivory  keys, 
And  lets  his  fingers  wander  o'er 
The  clavier  as  they  please 

The  dreamer  plays,  and  lets  his  dreams 

Take  form  whate'er  they  will,  — 
Sometimes  in  diapasons  full, 

Or  voices  small  and  shrill. 

And  as  he  sits  with  whitened  locks, 

Unbinding  harmonies 
That  speechless  lie  in  soundless  chains 

Beneath  the  placid  keys, 

A  golden  ray  from  blazoned  pane 
Streams  in  through  pictured  saint, 

And  bending  o'er  him  musing  there, 
Creates  a  picture  quaint. 

Transfigured  in  the  waning  light, 

A  youth  once  more  he  seems ; 
Each  silvery  lock,  no  longer  white, 

With  golden  sunlight  gleams. 

The  decades  passed  since  youth  was  his 

Like  broken  dreams  appear  ; 
And  like  a  dream  this  Evensong 

To  weary  souls  so  dear. 

The  choristers  have  sung  their  psalms, 

And  priest  the  lessons  read ; 
But  still  absorbed  the  dreamer  plays. 

To  other  fancies  dead. 
14 


2IO 


LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 


The  pictured  glass  is  dark  again  ; 

The  flowing  locks  are  white  , 
The  organ,  moaning,  dies  in  pain, 

As  dies  the  fading  light. 

Though  dark  and  still  the  empty  church, 

An  angel  flies  o'erhead, 
And  passing  near  with  drooping  wings, 

He  leaves  the  dreamer  —  dead. 


REVERIE. 


By  Castelmar. 


WHITE  little  sails  far  cut  at  sea, 
I  watch  ye,  painted  athwart  the  blue, 
The  clouds  a-dream  in  the  sky  above, 
And  ye  at  rest  on  the  same  soft  hue. 

October  is  rocking  the  earth  to  sleep,  — 
With  dreamy  zephyrs  is  crooning  low  ; 

Full  soon  the  November  winds  will  heap 
Above  its  slumbers  the  sheltering  snow. 

How  strange  to  think  that  all  this  glow 
And  glad  abundance  of  life  will  lie 

So  many  brooding  months  benumbed,  — 
Breathless  and  dumb,  'neath  a  leaden  sky ! 

O  clouds  and  sails  and  earth  at  rest, 
Have  ye  not  a  lesson  to  teach  my  heart, 

As  it  feels  its  winter  chill  come  on 

And  the  battling  winds  and  storms  upstart? 

Oh,  that  it  too  might  learn  to  rest 

Safe  in  the  shelter  our  God  doth  mark, 

Close  and  still  on  the  Father's  breast, 
Shuddering  not  at  the  storm  and  dark  ! 


POEMS  OF  MEDITATION.  211 

I  wonder  are  they  afraid  —  the  flowers  ? 

Do  they  tire  of  waiting,  and  long  to  grow  ? 
Do  roses  weep  through  the  winter  hours, 

And  violets  shiver  beneath  the  snow  ? 

I  fear  me  much  'tis  my  heart  alone 

That  questions  the  Hand  outstretched  to  lead, 
And  makes  its  weak,  repining  moan,  — 

"  Dost  Thou  forget  my  piteous  need  ?  " 

Poor  heart,  sore  heart,  God  pity  thee, 
And  clasp  thee  close  and  hold  thee  fast ! 

God  pardon  thine  infirmity, 
And  bring  thy  summer  back  at  last ! 


"O    VANISHED    DAY!" 
By  F.  Burge  Griswold. 

THE  night  is  come,  O  vanished  day ! 
What  record  hast  thou  borne  away? 
The  early  dawn  was  fair  and  bright, 
With  wishes  pure,  and  purpose  right. 

What  of  the  hours  ?     Have  Faith  and  Love 

Been  diligent  themselves  to  prove 

My  guardian  angels,  covering 

Both  speech  and  act  with  shining  wing? 

Has  Truth  been  near  me  with  her  brow 
As  sunlight  on  the  driven  snow  ? 
And  Joy  and  Peace  —  have  these  stayed  by, 
With  an  unwearied  constancy  ? 

What  graces  have  I  entertained  ? 
What  sinful  inclinations  chained? 
Have  heart  and  hands  been  freely  given 
In  holy  charities,  to  Heaven  ? 


212  LYRICS  OF    THE   LIVING   CHURCH. 

Was  every  passing  moment  fraught 
With  good,  in  word,  or  deed,  or  thought  ? 
The  night  is  come,  O  vanished  day ! 
What  record  hast  thou  borne  awav? 


UNDER    THE    TREES. 
By  Julia  E    Phelps. 

AS  friends,  dear  life-long  friends,  we  love  the  trees 
High  o'er  our  heads  they  rise,  a  lordly  race, 
Yet  spread  their  leafy  tents  with  genial  grace, 
And  ever  tireless  stand  to  serve  and  please. 

The  same  to-day  as  when  our  lives  began  ; 

Beside  the  cottage  door  or  palace  gate, 

In  majesty  and  constancy  they  wait, 

While  come  and  go  the  brief,  swift  days  of  man. 

The  timid  bird  that  from  the  gentlest  hand 
A  crumb  will  scarcely  take,  casts  out  all  fear 
Amid  their  leafy  boughs,  and  sweet  and  clear 
Trills  out  its  joyous  lays  o'er  all  the  land. 

The  homeless  wanderer,  whose  clouded  mind. 
Perchance,  tho'  rough  the  way  his  feet  have  trod, 
Still  holds  some  lingering  ray  of  trust  in  God, 
Their  cool  shade  seeks,  a  touch  of  peace  to  find. 

Upon  those  distant  scenes  that  vanish  not, 
Where  memory  loves  to  wander  down  the  past. 
Unchanged  the  trees  their  peaceful  shadows  cast, 
The  leaflet's  silvery  tones  are  unforgot. 

Here,  resting,  dreaming,  listening,  free  from  care, 
New  visions  reach  this  poor,  dim,  mortal  sight, 
The  mist  uplifts  that  hid  the  heavenly  light, 
The  soul  communes  with  God  in  silent  prayer. 


POEMS   OP   MEDITATION.  213 

AS    WE    LOOK    UPON    THE    DEAD." 
By  Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe. 

STANDING  by  the  open  coffin, 
Where  the  icy  hand  of  death, 
Sweeping  over  cheek  and  forehead, 

Chilled  the  face  and  hushed  the  breath, 
We  forget  each  hasty  action, 

All  the  angry  words  they  said ; 
We  remember  only  goodness 
When  we  look  upon  the  dead ! 

And  we  sometimes  think  so  sadly  : 

"  Could  those  closed  eyes  see  again. 
Could  that  still  heart  only  quicken 

With  a  throb  of  joy  or  pain, 
We  would  shield  them  from  all  evil." 

But,  alas  !  the  day  has  fled ; 
And  our  tears  lie  all  unheeded, 

On  the  still  face  of  the  dead. 

Do  we  ever  think,  I  wonder, 

That  some  struggling  heart  might  be 
Strengthened  in  the  path  of  duty 

By  a  smile  from  you  or  me,  — 
Some  despairing  one  grow  hopeful 

Could  these  tears  for  them  be  shed, 
If  we  only  gave  the  living 

Half  the  love  we  give  the  dead  ? 

Oh  !  the  erring  need  our  pity  : 

Haply,  could  the  truth  be  known, 
They  will  bear  a  clearer  record 

To  the  Father  than  our  own. 
All  these  tears  are  unavailing, 

Though  in  deepest  sorrow  shed, 
When  we  keep  them  from  the  living 

Just  to  give  them  to  the  dead. 


214  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

IN    MAY. 
By  O.  W.   Rogers. 

FROM  books,  and  care,  and  vagrant  thought, 
I  go  to  Nature's  fair  domain, 
To  see  the  wonders  Spring  hath  brought 
From  peaceful  death  to  life  again. 

The  grass  up-springs  with  grateful  dower 
And  lines  my  pathway  to  the  wood, 

Where  mosses  feel  th'  enlivening  power 
Nor  languish  in  humilitude. 

The  wind-flower  nods  from  hazel-hedge, 

The  violet  coy  peers  up  at  me  : 
And  columbine,  on  yonder  ledge, 

Gives  a  "good  morrow  !  "  fair  and  free. 

Ferns,  velvet-clad,  awake  and  bring 
Their  grace  to  shade  the  limpid  pool, 

Whence  tiny  rills  o'erflow  and  sing 
A  welcome  sweet  in  cadence  cool. 

How  fairy-like  the  woodland  scene  ! 

Each  tree  apparelled  daintily, 
Seems  conscious  of  its  charms,  I  ween, 

And  buds  and  leaves  impatiently. 

The  maple  blushes  in  its  blooms. 

Forecasting  its  October  sheen  ; 
The  birch  shakes  out  her  tasselled  plumes 

And  rightful  reigns  the  forest  queen. 

How  lush  the  meadow-grasses  grow, 

And  spread  rich  feast  for  meek-eyed  kine  ! 

The  becks  how  joyously  they  flow 
And  glisten  in  the  soft  sunshine  ! 


POEMS  OF  MEDITATION.  215 

The  cowslip  opes  its  golden  cup 

And  mocks  the  sun  this  glorious  day ; 

All  earth  seems  mounting  up  and  up, 

And  heaven  seems  meeting  her  half-way  ! 

0  Nature's  peace  !  O  Nature's  balm  ! 
My  God,  I  thank  Thee  more  and  more 

For  her  sweet  influence  —  holy,  calm  — 
And  for  her  beauty's  boundless  store  ! 

1  thank  Thee  for  a  friend  at  one 
With  me,  in  love  of  field  and  wood, 

Who  sees  in  mountain,  mead,  or  stone, 
A  token  of  Thy  love  and  good 

Though  girt  with  man's  infirmities, 
He  looks  through  Nature  unto  Thee, 

And  leaves  the  world's  inanities 
To  go  a-field  with  Thee  and  me  ! 


THE    CHANGING    LEAF. 
By  J.  W.  P. 

THE  forest  trees  are  all  aglow 
With  ruby  hues  aflame  ; 
Topaz  and  garnet  high  and  low, 
And  tinctures  rare,  each  nook  doth  show, 
Which  artist  scarce  can  name. 

On  Nature's  pallet  she  hath  spread 
Her  pigments  mixed  with  care  ; 

And  o'er  the  woodland  wastes  are  shed 

The  radiant  flora  of  her  bed, 
With  glories  everywhere  ! 


2l6  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

She  takes  what  hues  she  liketh  best 

To  trace  her  story  in . 
Snatching  her  tints  from  rosy  west, 
Or  borrowing  from  the  jewelled  crest 

Where  morning  doth  begin. 

And  when  the  gallery  is  full 

Of  visions  none  can  paint ; 
With  frosted  brush,  these  works  of  skill. 
Are  from  the  canvas  swept  at  will. 
In  wealth  of  lavishment ! 

And  so  with  each  returning  year 

The  picture  is  renewed  ; 
The  Master-artist  doth  appear, 
To  garnish  thus  the  grateful  cheer 

Of  autumn's  bounteous  good  ! 


MAY. 

By  Cornelia  Bogert. 

^HE  May  has  come.     The  earthworms  go 
-L     To  sun  themselves  above  the  ground : 
Birds  warble  on  the  trees  around, 
And  brooks  respond  in  rhythmic  flow. 

We  feel  oppressed  by  sudden  heat. 

The  tender  ferns  are  involute. 

The  fruit-trees  promise  give  of  fruit, 
May-flowers  spring  up  at  our  feet 

What  though  the  idle  frogs  may  croak. 
Our  hearts  are  like  the  brooks,  set  free, 
That  pour  their  fulness  in  the  sea; 

Unheeding  discontented  folk. 


POEMS   OF  MEDITATIOX.  217 

Baptized  in  showers  through  the  night. 
The  clovers  sweet  their  censers  swing ; 
Bird-choristers  are  carolling; 

The  apple-trees  are  veiled  in  white. 

The  willow,  ironwood,  and  birch 

Put  forth  their  leaves,  the  violets  blow, 
As  down  the  winding  road  we  go, 

And  quiet,  enter  in  the  church. 

We  feel,  while  we  are  kneeling  there, 
Our  Confirmation  vows  to  take, 
As  though  the  works  of  God  would  make 

The  words  more  earnest  in  our  prayer. 

As  if  His  Spirit,  like  a  dove. 

With  peace  which  passeth  what  we  know. 

Would  make  us  consecrated  grow. 
To  turn  our  thoughts  to  Him  above. 


THE    RECLUSE. 
By  O.  W.   Rogers. 

FAR  from  September's  wealth  of  blooms, 
On  mountain,  moor,  and  lea. 
Like  one  who  fearlessly  assumes 
The  privilege  to  be, 

A  solitary  aster  stands 

Where  flows  Weelahka's  stream 
By  rugged  rocks  and  woody  strands, 

Ere  lapsing  into  dream. 

Oh,  not  from  mossy  sod  it  rears. 

Its  lissom  stalk  and  straight. 
But  from  a  rock  where  passing  years 

Have  left  a  lichened  state. 


2  1 8  LYRICS  OF    THE   LIVING   CHURCH. 

An  exile  is  it  from  the  moor, 

Or  from  the  bosky  wood, 
Like  one  who  on  some  siren's  shore 

Ponders  in  mystic  mood  ? 

It  seems  to  watch  the  waters  pass 

On,  on  eternally, 
Like  some  charmed  sentry  whom,  alas  ! 

Xo  comrade  shall  set  free. 

A  hermit  is  it.  or  a  monk, 

In  this  so  sweet  retreat. 
Passing,  in  meditation  sunk, 

An  Are  .'  to  repeat  ? 

A  nun,  from  blest  community 

Of  sisters  on  yon  hill, 
Wrapt  in  rare  opportunity 

To  gaze  and  dream  at  will  ? 

It  is,  I  trow,  a  flower  of  grace 

Keeping  its  vigil  lone, 
Above  the  water's  reckless  race 

By  its  huge  bowlder  stone. 

Nodding  in  every  breath  of  wind. 

Gleaming  in  sunny  sheen, 
Its  welcome  is  a  welcome  kind, 

Its  lesson  clearly  seen. 

Fair  queen,  I  love  thy  wild  domain, 

Yet  wonder  when  I  see 
The  peaceful  tenure  of  thy  reign 

On  yon  sterility. 

Oh,  may  my  heart  interpret  free, 
When  on  thy  realm  I  muse, 

The  sweet  content  I  learn  of  thee, 
Thou  beautiful  recluse ! 


POEMS   OF  MEDITATION.  219 

CARMINA    IN    NOCTE. 
By  the  Rev.  J.  Anketell. 

WITH  sorrow  weeping,  my  lone  watch  keeping 
While  all  are  sleeping,  — 
The  stars  my  light,  — 
Though  fond  hopes  perish,  His  love  I  cherish, 
Who  giveth  songs  in  the  silent  night. 

I  muse  and  ponder,  my  thoughts  still  wander 
And  seek  Him  yonder 

In  glory  bright, 
Forever  living,  my  sin  forgiving, 

Who  giveth  songs  in  the  silent  night. 

Then  upward  soaring,  my  love  adoring 
Its  song  is  pouring, 

With  sweet  delight, 
Where  saints  are  praising  His  love  amazing, 

Who  giveth  songs  in  the  silent  night. 

With  accents  tender,  their  praise  they  render 
In  white-robed  splendor 

On  Syon's  height, 
To  One  victorious,  forever  glorious, 

Who  giveth  songs  in  the  silent  night. 

Break,  Day  of  glory,  and  tell  the  story 
Of  ages  hoary, 

And  Time's  long  flight; 
Though  earth  should  perish,  His  love  I  cherish, 

Who  giveth  songs  in  the  silent  night. 


Siiflfc 


if     fd 


POEMS   OF  MEDITATION.  221 

UNDER    MAGDALEN    TOWER:     A    MAY 
MEMORY.1 

By  Katharine  A.  Mathevv. 

THE  springtime  sunshine's  gentle  balm 
Falls  softened  in  a  golden  haze, 
And  sloping  lawns  of  tender  green 

Spread  out  beside  the  trodden  ways. 
The  breath  and  light  of  budding  May 

Steep  lawn  and  glade  in  beauty  rare ; 
And  round,  white  clouds  drift  on  their  way 
Through  the  soft  azure  of  the  air. 

A  wind  swept  down  the  western  hills 

And  tossed  the  opening  lilac  blooms  ; 
It  swayed  the  nodding  Guelder-rose, 

And  waved  the  bright  laburnum  plumes. 
The  stately  chestnut's  spreading  shade 

Was  lit  with  white  lamps  tipped  with  flame  ; 
In  leafy  alleys  breezes  made 

A  murmurous  sound  that  went  and  came,  — 

That  went  and  came,  and  rose  and  fell, 

And  brought  upon  its  fragrant  wings 
The  echo  of  the  Matin-bell 

That  in  the  old  tower  hangs  and  swings, 
And  flings  its  iron  music  out, 

Bidding  good  souls  to  chant  and  pray 
And  lift  the  heart  to  the  dear  God, 

Who  sends  the  sunshine  and  the  May. 

And  while  the  echoes  faintly  die 
The  cloistered  stillness  wakes  again 

To  young  boy-voices,  clear  and  high, 
That  chant  a  metrical  refrain  ; 

1  By  the  will  of  Henry  the  Seventh,  of  England,  it  was  ordained  that 
a  Mass  for  the  repose  of  his  soul  should  be  sung  at  five  o'clock  on  the 
morning  of  the  first  of  May,  on  the  summit  of  Magdalen  Tower,  Ox- 
ford, "forever."  A  service  including  the  Hymnus  Eticharisticus  is 
now  yearly  sung  at  that  time  and  place. 


22  2  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH, 

And  up  the  winding  tower-stairs 
Climbs  (two  by  two,  I  see  them  go) 

A  troop  of  white-robed  choristers, 
With  fresh  young  faces  all  a-glow. 

I  catch  the  beaming  of  bright  eyes 

That  veil  as  best  they  can  their  mirth 
(For  hearts  are  light  when  life  is  May, 

And  a  boy's  gladness  is  of  earth). 
They  pass  ;  the  chant,  the  mounting  feet 

Die  into  silence  ;  I,  alone 
Beneath  the  old  tree's  rustling  shade, 

Catch  now  and  then  a  falling  tone. 

The  cool,  clear  Cherwell's  quiet  deeps 

Reflect  the  elm-trees  overhead. 
My  thoughts  sail  down  the  long,  long  ways 

To  old  May-days  and  springs  long  fled, 
When  the  stern  king,  whose  grief-worn  heart, 

Bereft  of  peace,  craved  earnest  prayer 
From  Christian  souls,  who  tenderly 

Would  lift  a  solemn  worship  there. 

So  the  sweet  music  mounts,  aspires, 

And  echoes  through  the  crystal  air; 
And  holy  Eucharistic  hymn 

Floats  heavenward  with  the  chanted  prayer: 
The  whole  wide  earth  seems  kneeling  low, 

Lifting  her  suppliant  hands  to  Him 
Whose  glory  fills  the  universe, 

Midst  echoing  songs  of  cherubim. 

A  requiem  song  earth's  children  raise 

At  eve  or  morn,  —  "  Lord,  give  us  peace  !  " 
Give  us,  in  mercy,  quiet  days ; 

Let  strife  be  hushed  ;  let  warfare  cease. 
"  The  peace  of  God,"  —  sweet,  parting  words 

That  close  the  prayer  and  speed  us  on ! 
O'er  heart  and  mind  they  softly  fall 

Till  strife  be  past  and  victory  won. 


g^^»^^^S| 

irf "                                  ^&$m 

.^4F^  .  - 

xl 

W^'^ ^          ,:■         -1 

'■'■"SP^^SlS 

U^gfe*     :.. 

irawttBSP 

r. 

■Rk/'^-: 

^^Fv   f^^/      -"■ 

MOXTREUX. 
By  the  Rev.  Frank  L.  Norton. 

AS  one  who,  dreaming  in  the  twilight  gloom. 
Sees  loved  and  lost  ones,  indistinct  and  dim, 
Friends  of  his  younger  days,  who  go  and  come 
With  pleasant  memories,  — not  spectres  grim 
And  ugly  phantasies,  but  with  that  mien 

They  wore  in  time  when  hope  was  young  and  bright, 
When  faith  was  theirs  in  things  not  plainly  seen, 

And  day  was  theirs,  nor  yet  had  come  the  night, 
So,  fair  Montreux,  within  thy  sheltered  nooks 


Which,  in  my  boyhood's  days,  with  eager  looks, 

Made  holiday  in  this  enchanted  place, 
Comes  back  again,  —  my  sainted  father's  soul,  — 

And  holds  communion  sweet  with  me. 
As  then  the  moonlight  quivers  on  the  vine-clad  knoll : 

As  then  the  lake  round  Chillon's  towers  I  see. 
I  hear  him  speak  of  what  the  mountains  teach  : 

"  They  bring  my  soul,"  he  says,  ';  a  holy  calm,  — 
A  peace  beyond  the  power  of  Care  to  reach,  — 

And  bathe  mv  tired  soul  with  restful  balm. 


224  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

When  on  the  eternal  hills  my  eyes  have  rest, 

So  strong  and  brave,  unmoved  by  stormy  blast, 
To  them,  like  wearied  dove  unto  her  nest, 

Myself  would  flee  and  find  a  home  at  last. 
Their  path  to  Heaven  is  rough  and  hard  to  gain ; 

Their  way  is  steep  and  often  lost  in  cloud  ; 
But  when  the  heights  are  reached  by  might  and  main, 

White  robes  are  given  with  which  their  forms  they 
shroud  ; 
And  round  their  heads,  with  ever  growing  light, 

Th'  eternal  Sun  shines  forth  with  welcoming  ray, 
The  while  their  earth-bound  feet  in  dreary  night 

Are  stumbling  in  the  darkness  of  the  way. 
God's  altars  they  within  His  temple  spread 

With  the  '  fair  linen  '  of  the  virgin  snow  ; 
The  ripening  wheat  provides  the  Living  Bread, 

And  vineyards  redden  with  Eucharistic  glow  ; 
While  rose-hued  mists,  like  incense-laden  air, 

Rise  at  the  vesper  hour  in  clouds  as  bright 
As  in  cathedral  choir  ascending  prayer 

Is  wafted  upward  toward  the  realms  of  light. 
God  make  our  inmost  thought  as  clear  and  white 

As  the  fair  vestments  of  these  altars  be,  — 
Purged,  like  the  Rhone,  emerging  pure  and  bright 

From  Leman's  font  to  join  the  deep  blue  sea !  " 


I    STAND    AT   THE    UOOR,   AND    KNOCK." 

By  F.  Macrae. 

"  T  TE  called  me  to  Him  in  my  early  morn, 
rl        When,  full  of  glee, 
I  played  and  sang  upon  the  grassy  lawn 

Beneath  the  tree ; 
But  like  a  wayward  colt  I  turned  again 
Back  to  my  games  in  scorn,  —  I  came  not  then. 


POEMS   OF  MEDITATION.  225 

"  Again  He  called  me  on  a  later  day 

When  years  were  gone,  — 
When  I  had  ceased  to  laugh  and  sing  and  play 

Beneath  the  sun, 
When  like  '  a  stricken  deer  I  left  the  herd ; ' 
But  oh  !  I  came  not  at  that  pleading  word. 

"  Once  more  He  called  me  at  the  evening  time 

Of  my  poor  life,  — 
He  stopped  and  called  me  when  my  eyes  were  dim 

With  age  and  strife  : 
Oh !  then  at  last  I  came,  and  found  my  rest 
Within  the  shelter  of  my  dear  Lord's  breast. 

"  Yet  ever  does  this  thought  disturb  my  dreams 

By  night  and  day, 
Whether  in  busy  throngs  or  by  the  woodland  streams 

I  take  my  way  : 
Oh,  would  that  I  had  come  long  years  before  !  — 
When  first  I  heard  that  kind  knock  at  my  door." 


"TELL    ME    A    TALE." 
By  Fannie  A.  D.  Darden. 

TELL  me  a  beauteous  tale  ; 
Tell  me  the  story  that  I  love  the  best, 
You  know  it,  mother, — sweeter  than  the  rest; 
'T  is  not  a  tale  of  fairies  on  the  wing, 
Nor  huntsmen  wild  that  make  the  forest  ring, 
Nor  fancied  image  of  uncanny  thing,  — 
Tell  me  a  truthful  tale  ! 

Tell  me  the  tale  I  love,  — 
The  same  old  story  you  so  oft  have  told, 
Brighter  than  gems,  and  richer  far  than  gold,  - 
15 


2  26  LYRICS   OF    THE   LIVING    CHURCH. 

Of  Bethlehem's  Babe  to  whom  the  wise  men  came. 
Whom  shepherds  worshipped  by  that  holy  name 
Of  Christ  the  Lord ;  I  feel  my  heart  aflame 
At  that  sweet  tale  of  love  ! 

Tell  me  a  wondrous  tale : 
Tell  me  some  ardent,  glowing  tale  of  truth 
To  lead  my  spirit  upward !  cried  the  youth. 
They  tell  me  life  is  thorny,  rough,  and  drear  : 
Tell  me  the  story  of  the  Saviour  dear, 
Who  with  true  strength  and  help  is  ever  near  : 

Tell  me  the  wondrous  tale  ! 


Tell  us  the  blessed  tale, 
O  preacher  to  the  longing  souls  of  men  ! 
Tell  us  the  oft-told  story  o'er  again. 
You  need  no  honeyed  praise  to  gild  the  word 
Which  pierces  hearts  as  with  a  two-edged  sword 
The  Spirit  to  thy  speech  will  aid  afford  : 

Tell  us  the  blessed  tale  ! 

Tell  us  the  old,  old  tale 
Of  Jesus  dying  for  the  sins  of  men ; 
Tell  it  in  simple  words,  and  oft  again, 
To  rich  and  poor,  the  ignorant  and  the  wise.  — 
It  needs  no  words  in  rhetoric's  florid  guise 
To  teach  the  heart  or  ope  the  blinded  eyes : 

Tell  us  the  oft-told  tale  ! 

Tell  me  the  precious  tale. 
The  old  man  said  upon  his  dying  bed; 
Tell  me  of  Him  who  for  my  soul  hath  bled, 
Who  on  the  cross  gained  victory  o'er  the  grave. 
My  Saviour  Christ,  whose  hand  is  strong  to  save, 
Blest  story  chanted  over  Jordan's  wave, 

The  immortal,  deathless  tale  ! 


POEMS  OF  MEDITATION.  227 

MY    PORTION    FOREVER. 
By  M.  E.  Beauchamp. 

I  CANNOT  live  without  Thee, 
O  Jesus,  Friend  Divine  ; 
I  long  to  feel  Thy  Presence 
Within  this  heart  of  mine. 
Thou  nearest  and  Thou  dearest  Friend, 

Without  Thee  earth  were  gloom, 
And  life  were  but  the  dreary  way 
To  an  unlighted  tomb. 

I  cannot  live  without  Thee ; 

No  earthly  joy  or  love 
Can  fill  the  heart  that  yearneth 

For  Thee,  all  things  above. 
In  Thee  alone  my  heart  exults, 

My  Love,  my  Joy,  my  All ; 
While  Thou  art  mine  no  bliss  can  blind, 

No  terrors  can  appall. 

I  cannot  live  without  Thee, 

O  Shepherd  of  my  soul, 
To  guide  me  and  to  guard  me 

And  all  my  ways  control  : 
Poor,  homeless  wanderer  I  should  be 

Without  the  unseen  Guide 
By  whom  my  path  in  life  is  marked, 

My  every  want  supplied. 

I  cannot  live  without  Thee; 

Thou  art  my  breath  of  life, 
My  strength  in  every  hardship, 

My  aid  in  every  strife. 
Uncheered  by  Thee,  life's  loneliness 

Would  be  too  hard  to  bear ; 
And  heaven  would  be  no  heaven  to  me 

If  Thou  should'st  not  be  there. 


$ocm£  of  CPfoljooti. 


DAISY'S    EASTER   GIFT. 
By  Callie  L.  Bonney. 

DAISY  sat  in  the  family  pew, 
As  sweet  as  the  Easter  blossoms  fair, 
A  wond'ring  look  in  the  violet  eyes, 
The  sunshine  lighting  her  golden  hair. 

Listening  intently  to  chant  and  creed, 
In  tiny  prayer-book  keeping  the  place, 

Reading  softly  with  smile  of  content. 
An  eager  look  on  the  dimpled  face. 

When,  'mid  the  service  of  prayer  and  song  — 
Could  it  be  ?  —  a  purring  soft  and  low  ! 

And  out  of  the  depths  of  Daisy's  muff, 

Walked  bright-eyed  kitten  as  white  as  snow. 

And  when  they  questioned  her  afterward, 
The  wee  one  answered,  in  accents  glad, 

"  You  said  we  should  bring  an  Easter  gift, 
And  that  was  the  bestest  thins:  I  had." 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD.  <4 

LINES    ON    THE    PICTURE    OF    A    CHILD. 
By  O.  W.  Rogers. 

DEAR  child,  with  eyes  of  truth  untold, 
With  lightsome  face  and  hair  of  gold, 
Thy  picture,  'mid  my  books,  out-gleams 
Like  happy  thought  from  somlfre  dreams. 

Spring  sunlight  on  thy  lips  appears, 
Presaging  neither  doubt  nor  fears  ; 
Hope  dwelleth  there,  and  in  thine  eyes 
A  beauty  that  with  April  vies. 

Like  modest  violet  in  the  wood, 
Uprearing  in  sweet  solitude, 
So  pure,  so  guileless,  and  bedight 
With  subtle  influence  of  delight. 

Sweet  child,  thy  bright,  unclouded  face 
Looks  on  me  with  a  peerless  grace. 
And  in  this  darkling  winter  day 
Diffuses  all  the  sheen  of  May. 

Like  crystal  lens  through  it  I  see 
Thy  sponsor's  love  and  fealty  — 
See  through  thine  own  her  trustful  eyes, 
And  trace  her  path  to  Paradise. 

O  Linda,  may  her  grace  be  thine, 
Her  prayers  thy  daily  needs  entwine; 
A  woman's  heart,  a  woman's  will 
God  give  thee,  shielded  by  His  skill ! 

Oh,  with  thy  years  may  graces  shine, 
O'ershadowed  by  a  grace  Divine  ! 
Then  what  is  now  so  fair  to  see 
Shall  fairer  than  the  promise  be  ! 


'31 


232  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

PATTY    GRIMM. 
By  Clara  J.  Denton. 

PRAY,  have  you  heard  of  Patty  Grimm  ? 
A  most  unfortunate  child  is  she : 
When  y«u  have  heard  her  story  through, 
I  'm  sure  you  '11  quite  agree  with  me. 

For  Patty's  eyes  can  only  see 

The  faults  and  flaws  in  everything : 

She  whines  o'er  this,  and  frets  at  that, 
Till  peace  and  happiness  take  wing. 

Alas  !  poor  child,  what  can  she  do  ? 

There  's  nothing  right  in  life  below. 
The  sky's  too  blue,  or  else  too  dark, 

And  time  too  fast,  or  else  too  slow. 

A  book  's  too  dull,  or  else  too  light, 
Her  friends  too  gay,  or  stupid  all. 

Her  work  too  hard,  her  play  too  rough. 
Her  clothes  too  large,  or  else  too  small. 

From  day  to  day  she  plucks  life's  thorns 
And  throws  the  flowers  fair  away. 

Alas  !  alas  !  she  must  become 
A  very  thorny  Miss,  some  day  ! 

Her  face  has  quite  forgotten  all 
The  tender  smiles  of  baby  days : 

Her  frowns  —  alack  !  so  fast  they  come 
Her  brow  is  like  a  woody  maze. 

What  can  we  do  for  Patty  Grimm  ? 

For  this  is  what  we  sorely  dread, 
That,  should  she  reach  sweet  Heaven  at  last. 

She'll  wish  'twas  somewhere  else  instead. 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD.  233 

TWO    BIRTHDAYS. 
By  M.  E.  Beauchamp. 

A  FAIR-HAIRED  little  maiden 
Looks  up  with  beaming  eyes ; 
She  tells  me  't  is  her  birthday, 

With  a  kind  of  mild  surprise; 
So  odd  it  seems  to  her  small  brain, 

She  cannot  well  divine 
Why  she  was  eight  but  yesterday, 
And  now,  to-day,  is  nine. 

Her  mind  is  full  of  projects 

About  her  sports  and  toys  ; 
No  fear  of  coming  evil 

Her  present  good  alloys  ; 
She  only  wants  the  tender  care, 

Her  parents  freely  give, 
And  in  the  shelter  of  their  love, 

Without  a  care  can  live. 

A  sad-eyed,  gray-haired  woman 

Sits  in  her  room  alone  : 
It  is  her  birthday  morning, 

And  memory  makes  a  moan. 
That  three-score  years  have  passed  away. 

And  taken  in  their  train 
All  hopes  and  joys,  and  left  to  her 

But  weariness  and  pain. 

Ah  !  lonely  one,  bethink  thee 

Of  that  far  birthday  morn, 
When  life  seemed  full  of  brightness, 

Thy  path  without  a  thorn. 
If  thou  again  could'st  freely  trust 

Thy  Father  to  provide, 
Still  might'st  thou,  like  little  child. 

Without  a  care  abide. 


234  LYRICS   OF    THE   LIVING   CHURCH. 

A    LITTLE    CHILD. 
By  Mrs.  J.  D.  H.  Browne. 

A  TENDER  bud  in  which  enfolded  lies 
Life's  unexpanded  flower  — 
An  opening  dawn  of  endless  destinies, 
A  heaven-descended  dower. 

Grasping  love's  sceptre  in  a  tiny  hand, 

All  in  unconscious  state, 
It  lies  and  rules,  with  absolute  command, 

A  new-born  potentate  ! 

Poor  mortals,  wearing  on  our  tired  brow 

The  earthly  travel-stain. 
We  see  this  babe,  pure  as  the  driven  snow, 

With  joy  akin  to  pain. 

We  see  our  manhood  and  our  womanhood, 

Veiled  in  this  sweet  disguise, 
Our  own  lost  possibilities  of  good 

In  these  pure,  wondering  eyes. 

Ah  !  little  pilgrim,  better  be  thy  road, 
With  less  of  thorns  and  snares, 

Than  that  we  travelled  !  lighter  be  thy  load, 
And  fewer  be  thy  cares  ! 

Yet  cannot  all  our  tender  love  avert 

Life's  errors  and  its  pains  ; 
We  cannot  gather  out  the  stones  that  hurt. 

Xor  wash  away  the  stains  ! 

Hadst  Thou  not  said,  of  old,  in  Galilee  — 

Outstretching  hands  Divine. 
"  Suffer  the  little  ones  to  come  to  me." 
made  them  Thine  : 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD.  235 

Did  we  not  know  Thee  as  the  Guide  and  Friend, 

Could  we  not  trust  to  Thee, 
To  lead  these  little  feet  e'en  to  the  end. 

More  tenderly  than  we, 

Well  might  we  fear  fierce  sun  and  chilling  wind. 

And  roughness  of  the  way  ! 
But  Thou,  O  Shepherd,  ever  strong  and  kind, 

Wilt  be  Thy  lamb's  sure  stay. 


CHILD    WISDOM. 
By  J.  C.  S. 

O  MOTHER,  wipe  my  tears  away  !  " 
I  heard  a  little  maiden  say, 
Although  her  mothers  stern  surprise 
Had  brought  the  tears  to  those  sweet  eyes. 

Dear  little  one  !  full  well  she  knew 
Though  mother  chides,  she  comforts  too  ; 
One  moment  she  must  needs  reprove. 
But  naught  can  change  her  tender  love. 

Children  of  larger  growth  are  we, 
But  oft  this  truth  we  fail  to  see, 
That  He  alone  can  balm  bestow 
Who  caused  the  bitter  tears  to  flow. 

Though  His  rebuke  has  made  us  mourn, 

Our  penitence  He  will  not  scorn, 

If,  like  the  little  child,  we  say, 

"  Dear  Father,  wipe  our  tears  away  !  " 


236 


LYRICS   OF    THE   LIVING    CHURCH. 


THE    CHILDREN. 
By  Marion  Couthouy  Smith. 

THEY  take  my  very  heart  —  I  know  not  how  — 
So  shyly  lifting  up  their  deep,  sweet  eyes, 
Pure  as  the  morning  star  in  virgin  skies, 
'Neath  the  soft  hair  and  white,  unshadowed  brow. 

I  would  not  that  the  darkness  of  the  world 

Should  cloud  their  tender  light !     I  would  instead 
That  mine  own  eyes  should  weep,  and  o'er  my  head 

The  wings  of  storm  and  sorrow  be  unfurled. 

I  fain  would  stand  before  each  little  breast, 
A  loving  shield  :  but  since  this  may  not  be, 
I  long  instead  that  they  should  turn  to  me, 

As  birds  that  flutter  gladly  to  the  nest, 

After  the  first  weak  flight,  sure,  ever  sure, 

To  find  a  mother-heart,  and  rest  secure  ! 


THE    HIGHER    WISDOM. 
By  Frederick  H.  Kelsey. 


o 


PAPA  !  "  cried  little  Daisy, 
With  a  sadness  in  her  eye, 
As  she  saw  the  kernels  scattered, 
'Neath  the  heavv  soil  to  die. 


"  O  Papa  !  "  cried  little  Daisy, 
"  Do  not  throw  the  wheat  away ; 

It  must  be  wrong  to  waste  it, 
It  is  good  for  food,  you  say." 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD.  237 

Did  the  father  cease  from  sowing? 

No;  he  kissed  her  tears  away; 
Bade  her  wait  until  the  autumn. 

Showed  her  then  the  harvest  gray. 

Thus  do  we,  like  little  children. 

Raise  our  foolish  human  cries, 
When  the  wisdom  of  our  Father 

Some  fond  hope  our  heart  denies. 

But  in  God's  eternal  harvest 

We  shall  find  that  richest  joys 
Have  been  won  by  our  surrender 

Of  these  pleasing,  earthly  toys. 

So  we  pray  in  trustful  accents, 

As  we  journey  day  by  day, 
That  His  will  may  be  accomplished 

And  His  wisdom  point  the  way. 


GIVE    US    THIS    DAY    OUR    DAILY    BREAD. 
By  the  Rev.  Frank  L.  Norton,  D.  D. 

LITTLE  white-robed,  curly  head, 
Kneeling  down  by  snowy  bed, 
Nightly  prayers  had  softly  said, 
Asking  for  his  "  daily  bread," 
While  he  prayed,  "  Thy  will  be  done 
By  all  dwellers  'neath  the  sun, 
As  by  those  in  Heaven  above, 
Bound  to  each  with  bands  of  love." 
Thinking  then,  with  knitted  brow, 
Of  some  puzzling  "  why  or  how," 
Turning  to  me,  gravely  said : 
"  Papa,  tell  me,  why  for  bread 


238  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Should  I  ask  at  even  prayer. 
Or  for  food  have  any  care, 
When  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep 
Asking  God  my  soul  to  keep  ? 
For  I  say,  '  Give  us  this  day ' 
When  *t  is  night  I  kneel  to  pray. 
Seems  to  me,  I  'd  better  ask 
Help  to  do  the  morrow's  task 
Than  to  pray  for  bread  to  eat 
'Ere  another  sun  we  greet." 
Smiled  I  at  the  puzzled  brow. 
Thinking  of  this  "  why  and  how  ;  " 
Gently  stroked  the  sunny  hair 
With  its  golden  color  rare, 
Shading  dreamy,  thoughtful  eyes, 
Catching  shadows  from  the  skies. 
"  Little  white-robed,  curly  head, 
When  you  ask  for  daily  bread, 
'T  is  no  selfish  prayer  you  say, 
And  't  is  always  somewhere  day. 
When  you  pray,  «  Give  us  this  day' 
Daily  bread,  you  mean  to  pray 
'  Give  Thy  children,  everywhere, 
Food  in  answer  to  my  prayer.' 
When  you  lay  you  down  to  sleep 
Asking  God  your  soul  to  keep. 
It  is  day  in  heathen  lands  — 
China's  shores  and  Afric's  sands 
So  you  ask  for  God  to  give 
Heathen  children  bread  to  live,  — 
Bread  that  cometh  down  from  Heaven, 
Food  that  Christ  Himself  hath  given. 
Day  by  day  you  ask  this  food, 
Heavenly  manna,  pure  and  good. 
Give  to  us  this  daily  bread, 
Morn  and  eve,  let  it  be  said ; 
For  't  is  always  somewhere  day, 
And  you  therefore  humbly  pray 
For  God's  children  everywhere, 
When  you  say  your  evening  prayer." 


2t9i£cellaneou£  $oemg. 


~" .  -  -  - 


d 


AS    WHITE   AS    WOOL. 


By  Alice  Gray  Cowan. 


"AS  white  as  wool!  "  Oh,  thus,  my  Saviour  said. 

l\     "  Thy  sins  shall  be,  that  now  as  scarlet  are."' 
My  Heavenly  Father's  word  !     I  bow  my  head : 

What  can  I  hope  for,  more?     What  promise  rare? 
Behold  the  flocks  upon  the  far  hill-side, 

Like  knots  of  daisies  in  the  tender  grass. 
Through  the  dark  vales  they  wander  without  guide : 

'Neath  starry  skies  the  summer  nights  they  pass. 
"  As  white  as  wool !  "  —  as  pure  as  helpless  lambs 

That  gambol  on  the  meadow's  daisied  breast ; 
That  follow,  bleating,  by  the  mother's  side, 

Or  lie  upon  the  streamlet's  brink  to  rest. 
My  sins,  though  scarlet,  "white  as  wool  "  shall  be, 

If  I  but  live,  my  Father,  near  to  Thee  ! 


240  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

A    SPRING-DAY    HYMN. 
By  the  Rt.  Rev.  W.  E.  McLaren,  D.  D.,  D.  C.  L. 

HOW  pure  the  dawn,  and  bright ! 
A  thousand  songs  of  waking  joy  arise ; 
And  to  the  zenith,  flooding  all  the  skies, 
Mounts  the  wide  splendor  of  the  light. 
So  rise,  my  soul,  to  God. 

Filled  are  the  curving  brooks 
With  hastening  streams  and  waters  running  bright, 
Dancing  and  singing  in  the  morning  light, 

Or  gliding  into  grassy  nooks. 
So  flow,  my  life,  toward  God. 

I  look  for  flowers  to  bloom 
Along  the  margin  of  these  streams  ;  the  skies 
Of  warmer  May,  with  many  a  fond  surprise 

Of  violets,  shall  cheer  my  gloom. 
Thus  do  I  hope  in  God. 

All  Nature  turns  her  tace 
Toward  the  increasing  sun,  and  prays  the  fire 
That  kindles  life  and  bids  the  buds  conspire 

To  clothe  the  earth  with  forms  of  grace. 
Thus  I  aspire  to  God. 

The  day  wanes  to  its  close. 
The  drowsy  herd  turns  homeward,  and  the  wing 
Of  every  bird  is  folded  ;  vespers  ring, 

And  weary  hearts  seek  soft  repose. 
So  rest,  my  heart !  in  God. 


242  LYRICS   OF    THE   LIVING   CHURCH. 


I 


A   SONNET. 

By  N.  F. 

BROKE  my  lute,  and  said  that  I  no  more 
Would  sing,  —  hopes  wrecked,  joys  past,  and 
present  pain, 
And  life  not  worth  the  living;  all  was  vain. 
But  to  sit  still  and  wait  upon  the  shore. 
Whence  every  moment  sadly  launches  o'er 
The  vast,  unfathomable,  trackless  main, 
And  never  back  returns,  the  ghostly  train 
Of  those  I  love,  and  shall  for  aye  deplore. 
My  food  was  bitter,  and  the  world  a  jest ; 

(And  yet  anon  a  voice  spake  in  my  ear  ; 
••  O  son  of  man  "  —  and  broke  my  slothful  rest  — 
"  O  son  of  man,"  it  said,  "  what  dost  thou  here  ? 
To  labor,  though  no  fruit  appear,  were  best, 

Nor  idle  to  be  found  when,  lo  !  thy  judge  is  near.' 


BY   THE    SEA. 
By  the  Rev.  J.  H.  Knowles. 

FAR  off,  the  rocks  point  out  to  sea, 
With  steadfast,  true,  unswerving  hand 
The  winds  may  blow,  the  waves  may  dash. 

But  ever  constant,  there  they  stand. 
A  symbol  this,  O  God,  that  we 
Should  ever  fix  our  thoughts  on  Thee. 

They  stand  'mid  tumult  of  the  storm, 
They  stand  when  lisping  waves  caress  ; 

In  sunshine,  rain-mist,  or  deep  shade, 
They  show  no  sign  of  weariness. 

A  symbol  this,  of  trustful  rest, 

That  what  God  sends  is  alwavs  best. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  243 

HEROISM    ON    THE    SEA. 
By  Maria  Batterham  Lindsey. 

IT  was  to  the  shore  of  a  boisterous  sea, 
Tossing  and  heaving  in  terrible  glee, 
Through  the  rough  waves'  lash  and  the  wild  winds'  play 
That  a  brave  ship  drove  one  winter's  day. 

She  struck  on  the  shoal  of  St.  George's  strand, 
In  sight  and  almost  within  hail  of  land, 
And  the  waves  washed  over  the  vessel's  side, 
When  an  anchored  boat  her  distress  descried. 

The  ship  was  fast,  and  the  sea  ran  high, 

And  the  cruel  wind  went  screaming  by,  — 

It  tore  her  shrouds  and  tattered  her  sail, 

As  she  bent  to  her  doom  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale. 

Half-mast  hung  the  flag;  and  that  other  boat 
Launched  a  small  craft  out  on  the  waves  afloat ; 
They  watched  the  brave  deed  from  the  doomed  ship  there, 
While  over  the  sea  rose  a  hope  and  a  prayer,  — 

When,  sudden  as  thought,  the  flag  was  gone  ! 
Still  the  rescuers'  boat  toiled  bravely  on ; 
'T  was  madness  to  dare  it,  but  hearts  were  brave, 
With  fellow-men  prey  to  the  merciless  wave. 

And  so,  through  the  fury  that  lashed  the  strand, 
The  little  boat  pressed  with  persistence  grand  ; 
Ere  the  wreck  went  down  they  had  saved  the  men, 
And  they  questioned  about  the  signal  then. 

"  Why  did  you  put  your  flag  out  of  sight  ?  " 

And  the  captain  answered  :  "  "T  was  madness  quite 

For  you  to  attempt  a  rescue  here ; 

We  had  no  boats,  and  the  end  was  near. 


244  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

"  We  smothered  our  hopes ;  't  was  a  pity,  we  knew. 
When  we  were  drowning,  to  sacrifice  you, 
So  we  lowered  our  flag  from  its  station  high, 
That  you  might  be  saved,  though  we  must  die." 


y 


DIES    IRiE. 
Translated  by  the  Rev.  J.  Anketell. 

SEE,  it  dawns,  that  day  of  burning, 
Oft  by  king  and  prophet  told  ; 
This  fair  earth  to  ashes  turning, 
Flaming  heavens  together  rolled, 
While  the  glittering 
Banners  of  the  Cross  unfold  ! 

Ah  !  what  terror  is  impending, 

When  the  Judge  of  man  descends, 

Strictly  to  our  deeds  attending, 
Every  secret  veil  he  rends, 
And  the  sinner 

To  His  rod  of  justice  bends. 

Hark  !  the  trumpet's  wondrous  swelling 
Calls  Death's  captives  from  the  ground, 

Every  dark  sepulchral  dwelling 
Echoes  to  its  awful  sound, 
And  the  legions 

Of  the  dead,  God's  throne  surround. 

Death,  amazed  with  sudden  terror, 
Opens  wide  the  mighty  tomb  ; 

Nature,  owning  human  error, 
Hides  her  pallid  face  in  gloom  ; 
Man,  the  creature, 

Rises  to  receive  his  doom. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS.  245 

Then  a  book  of  fiery  pages 

Flashes  on  our  startled  eyes  ; 
All  the  sins  of  bygone  ages 

Shall  a  guilty  world  surprise  ; 
While  for  refuge 
All  in  vain  the  sinner  cries. 

When  the  Judge,  from  heaven  descending, 
Mounts  His  crystal  throne  on  high, 

All  His  marshalled  hosts  attending, 
Flaming  legions  of  the  sky, 
Nothing  hidden 

Shall  escape  His  searching  eye. 

What  shall  I,  frail  man,  be  pleading? 

How  from  sin's  sad  doom  be  freed  ? 
To  what  patron  interceding, 

Begging  him  my  cause  to  plead, 
When  the  righteous 
God's  free  grace  for  safety  need  ? 

King  of  majesty  and  glory, 

Who  dost  free  salvation  give, 
Listen  to  Redemption's  story, 

Bid  Thy  erring  children  live  ! 
Fount  of  Pity, 
Save  me,  and  my  sins  forgive ! 

Holy  Jesu,  with  compassion 

Think  upon  Thine  earthly  way, 
How  I  caused  Thy  bitter  Passion 

When  in  sin  I  went  astray. 
Blessed  Saviour, 
Leave  me  not  in  that  dread  day. 

Weak  and  weary  Thou  hast  sought  me, 

Lost  to  God  and  dead  to  Thee : 
With  Thy  Blood  and  Passion  bought  me, 

Hanging  on  th'  accursed  tree  ; 
Let  such  labor 
Not  in  vain  be  spent  on  me. 


146  LYRICS   OF    THE   LIVING   CHURCH. 

Righteous  Judge  of  retribution. 
Who  my  guilt  and  woe  didst  bear, 

Grant  Thy  gift  of  absolution 
To  a  trembling  sinner's  prayer ; 
Lest  I  perish 

In  that  hour  of  dark  despair. 

As  a  guilty  culprit,  groaning. 
Low  I  bend  before  Thy  Throne, 

Blushing,  my  transgressions  owning  — 
Sins  for  which  Thou  didst  atone. 
Spare  Thy  suppliant: 

Lord.  I  cling  to  Thee  alone  ! 

Thou,  who  Mary  gav'st  remission, 
When  with  tears  she  bathed  Thy  feet, 

Heard'st  the  dying  thief's  petition 
On  the  cross,  Thy  mercy-seat,  — 
Hope  hast  given 

That  my  pardon  is  complete. 

Though  my  prayers  are  void  of  merit, 
Thy  blest  love  can  never  tire  : 

Let  my  soul  in  Thee  inherit 

All  Thy  ransomed  saints  desire  ; 
Save  in  mercy 

From  a  doom  of  endless  fire. 

With  Thy  sheep  a  place  provide  me, 

Pastured  in  eternal  light  : 
From  the  guilty  goats  divide  me, 

Banished  from  Thy  blissful  sight ; 
On  Thy  right  hand 
Set  me,  clad  in  robes  of  white. 

When  with  tears  of  bitter  anguish 
To  their  doom  the  lost  descend, 

In  eternal  flames  to  languish. 

In  a  death  that  knows  no  end,  — 
With  the  holy 

Bid  me  to  Thy  joys  ascend. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  247 

Low  in  prayer  I  bow  before  Thee, 

Prostrate  in  the  very  dust, 
With  a  contrite  heart  implore  Thee 

For  a  portion  with  the  just ; 
In  my  death-pangs 

Let  Thy  mercy  be  my  trust. 

On  that  day  of  tears  and  terror 

Man,  arising  from  his  clay. 
Stands  accused  of  sin  and  error, 

Guilty,  trembling  with  dismay. 
Holy  Jesu 
Save  him  in  that  awful  day  ! 


UNFINISHED. 
By  E.  A.  Clarke. 

I    WORKED  at  the  task  the  Master 
Had  set  me  at  early  morn, 
When  the  earth  lay  fresh  and  glowing 
In  the  radiant  light  of  dawn. 

My  hopes  were  fresh  as  the  dewdrops, 
My  heart  as  bright  as  the  sun  ; 

I  sang  as  I  worked,  and  pictured 
The  joy  of  a  task  well  done. 

But  the  day  wore  on,  and  the  dewdrops 
Were  kissed  by  the  sun  away; 

On  my  lips  the  song  grew  fainter 
I  had  chanted  at  break  of  day. 

But  the  work  was  still  the  Master's, 

So  I  toiled  with  loving  care 
Though  my  hands  grew  weak  and  weary 

And  my  song  became  a  prayer. 


248  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Then  suddenly  all  around  me 
A  glad  shout  rings  on  high : 

My  comrade's  task  is  completed ! 
Can  I  join  in  the  joyous  cry  ? 

I  look  at  mine  unfinished, 
I  glance  at  the  setting  sun.  — 

Perhaps  't  is  an  angel  whispers, 

"  'T  is  the  Master's  work  that  is  done.' 

So  I  blend  my  voice  in  the  anthem 
Of  praise  for  the  work  complete. 

As  'tis  bought  with  reverent  footsteps 
To  lay  at  the  Master's  feet. 

Then  I  turn  alone  in  the  shadows 
To  work  while  the  daylight  last: 

Did  I  fancy,  or  was  it  truly 
An  angel  that  flitted  past  ? 

••  Grieve  not  at  thy  work  unfinished." 
He  whispered  :  -  the  Lord  loves  best. 

The  gift  of  a  will  submissive. 
And  a  heart  in  His  love  at  rest.*' 


A'ISIOXS    IX    OAK    HILL    CEMETERY 
By  F.  Burge  Griswold. 


B 


ROYYX  leaves  upon  the  old  oak  trees. 
Melodious  in  the  gentle  breeze: 


Snowdrops,  with  meek  inclining  heads 
Beside  the  lowly,  silent  beds : 

The  vellow  dandelion,  king 

Of  all  the  early  flowers  ot  spring  : 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  249 

The  crocus,  with  its  petals  bright. 
Purple,  and  gold,  and  purest  white  ; 

The  shadow  of  a  bird,  that  flies 
Up  toward  the  realms  of  Paradise  : 

Bees,  sipping  from  the  blossoms  spread 
In  sweet  remembrance  o'er  the  dead  : 

The  marble  monuments  that  keep 
Their  record  while  our  dear  ones  sleep  : 

The  circling  hills,  the  bending  sky, 
With  benediction  from  on  high,  — 

Such  are  the  memories  that  embrace 
That  quiet,  hallowed  resting-place. 


HEAVEN. 
By  the  Rev.  Cameron  Mann. 

"  T)RESS    on   to    Heaven!"  —  so    goes    the    common 

JL        speech  — 

"  Cast  loose  from  these  foul  noisy  quays,  and  sail 
For  happy  islands  far  beyond  the  reach 

Of  this  deceptive  present,  dark  and  stale." 
Vain  thoughts !  that  eyes  which  see  naught  here  shall  hail 
A  joyous  light  on  some  untrodden  beach ; 
And  what  familiar  voices  could  not  teach 

In  stately  song  of  seraphs  shall  prevail. 

The  heavenly  sunbeams  on  earth's  highways  fall, 
The  blessed  angels  move  through  worldly  din, 

Not  over  seas  but  in  the  streets  they  call, 
At  every  step  we  meet  celestial  kin. 

In  sacramental  parts  is  shown  the  All ; 

The  gate  to  God  stands  open  here, — press  in  ! 


250  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

RACINE    REVISITED. 
By  the  Rev.  J.  H.  Knowles. 

AH  !  my  dear  DeKoven,  slumber, 
Slumber  'neath  thy  granite  cross ; 
Sleep  in  peace  !  though  we  may  never 
Cease  to  mourn  thy  bitter  loss. 

Sad  it  is  to  miss  thy  loved  smile 
Welcoming  our  pilgrim  feet. 

Sad  to  know  that  we  shall  never 
Hear  on  earth  thy  accents  sweet. 

But  the  thought  comes  still  to  cheer  us 
That  thy  work  is  being  done, 

That  the  spirit  of  the  Master 
Rules  from  rise  till  set  of  sun. 

In  the  silent  grave  thy  body 
Lies  beneath  the  carven  stone, 

But  the  sound  of  prayer  and  praises 
Echoes  near  with  ceaseless  tone. 

In  the  place  of  the  departed 
Rests  in  peace  thy  happy  soul, 

Waiting  there,  with  prayerful  spirit, 
For  the  Church's  glorious  goal. 

Here  on  earth,  before  the  altar 
Which  thy  saintly  hands  did  rear. 

In  sweet  union  with  thy  soul's  quest 
Rises  still  the  voice  of  prayer. 

Still  at  early  hour  that  altar 
Is  aglow  with  lights  that  shed 

Beams  of  peace  on  those  who  offer 
Day  by  day  the  Mystic  Bread. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  25  I 

Still  the  daily  round  of  Matins 

Bright  with  all  its  surpliced  throng, 

Still  the  noonday  Intercessions 
Lead  us  on  to  Evensong. 


Still  the  sweet  voice  of  the  Warden 
Breathes  o'er  all  the  word  of  peace; 

Ah  !  how  good  to  know  that  God's  work 
Never,  never  here  shall  cease. 

Dear  DeKoven,  sweetly  slumber, 
Slumber  'neath  thy  granite  cross, 

Sleep  in  peace  !  for  time  hath  tempered 
Thy  mysterious,  long  felt  loss. 


GORDON. 
By  R.  H.  G.  O. 

ENGLAND  !  thy  days  of  glory  are  not  o*er  — 
For  sure  a  nobler  hero  ne'er  drew  breath 
Than  dauntless  Gordon,  —  in  his  life  and  death 
Right  worthy  of  the  chivalry  of  yore. 
No  man  he  feared:  but  striding  vanward,  bore 
God's  banner  on  with  an  unflinching  faith  : 
As  though  he  heard  with  heaven-tuned  ear, 
"  Thus  saith  the  Lord : "  and  hearing,  cared  for  nothing 
more. 

His  memory  is  a  trumpet,  echoing  down 
Into  the  deepest  caverns  of  the  heart, 
Where  like  a  graven  image  Self  is  shrined  : 
Oh,  weave  for  his  dear  head  no  funeral  crown  ; 
Drop  but  one  tear,  and  turning  to  depart, 
Seek  thou  to  be  like  him  in  soul  and  mind. 


252  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

"ST."   AND    "D.  D." 

By  the  Author  of  "The, Most  Named  Church. 

ONE  Joseph  Parker  wrote  a  book, 
A  famous  book  wrote  he  ; 
And  on  the  titlepage  he  put 
That  he  was  a  "  D.  D." 

Of  great  and  worthy  men  he  wrote  — 
Of  James  and  John  and  Paul, 

But  who  they  were,  from  any  mark, 
You  could  not  guess  at  all. 

If  James  and  John  and  Paul  may  not 
As  "  Saints  "  be  known  to  fame, 

Why  does  this  Joseph  Parker  add 
"  D.  D."  to  his  own  name  ? 


MORNING. 
By  Thomas  Mair. 


TIS  early  morn  !  each  trembling,  dewy  spray 
With  radiant  beauty  glows  within  the  light 
That  streams  in  splendor  from  the  rising  sun 
'Gainst  the  dark  background  of  departing  night. 

O'er  the  broad  bosom  of  the  sparkling  sea 

The  foam-crowned  billows  haste  to  greet  the  shore. 

With  low-breathed  murmurs  of  the  lapping  tide, 
That  speak  of  peace  and  joy  forevermore. 

Thro'  the  dark  wood  and  o'er  the  sunlit  plain, 

The  feathered  songsters  pour  their  hymn  of  praise ; 

While  gentle  breezes,  wandering  thro'  the  grove, 
Join  the  sweet  anthem  that  their  voices  raise. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  253 

Earth  in  her  beauty  draws  so  near  to  heaven, 
We  seem  to  dwell  within  its  blessed  peace; 

When  in  our  hearts  all  pain  and  grief  depart, 
And  God  has  bid  the  mourner's  tear  to  cease. 

Will  such  a  morning  break  upon  my  soul, 

When  God  shall  call  my  spirit  from  earth's  night, 

To  dwell  forever  in  a  deeper  gloom 
Or  wake  to  endless  glory  in  His  sight  ? 

His  will  be  done  !     But  when  life's  path  grows  dark, 
When  doubt  and  trial  rest  upon  my  way, 

E'en  in  the  gloom  I  hear  my  Saviour's  voice 

And  know  His  hand  will  guide  me  when  I  stray. 

So  in  His  love  I  wait,  with  trusting  heart, 
To  see  the  shadows  break  and  flee  away, 

When  in  the  sunshine  of  His  gracious  smile 
My  night  shall  vanish  in  eternal  day. 


EVENING. 

By  Thomas  Mair. 


HOW  calm  the  wooded  hills  repose 
Beneath  the  softened  light, 
Reflected  from  the  glowing  clouds 
That  mark  Aurora's  flight. 

The  radiant  masses,  piled  on  high, 
With  wondrous  beauty  gleam, 

As  if  already  on  their  brows 
Heaven's  opening  glories  beam. 

No  sound  the  holy  stillness  breaks, 
Save  when  the  murmuring  pine 

Utters  its  anthem  in  the  breeze, 
To  nature's  Lord  divine. 


254  LYRICS   OF    THE   LIVING   CHURCH. 

In  such  an  hour  my  spirit  turns 
From  all  its  worldly  care, 

And  feels  within  its  longing  soul 
God's  holy  presence  there. 

My  listening  ears  can  almost  catch 
The  hymn  of  Heaven's  bright  choir; 

My  eyes,  that  pierce  the  radiant  blue, 
Reflect  my  heart's  desire. 

When  will  the  cords  that  bind  to  earth 
Break,  and  my  spirit  free  ! 

O  Lord,  't  is  weary  waiting  here, 
I  long  for  Heaven  and  Thee. 


GOLDEX-ROD. 
By  the  Rev.  Hobart  B.  Whitney. 

OX  the  river  bank  reclining. 
Where  no  noisy  footsteps  trod, 
Thoughts  and  cares  of  life  resigning. 
There  we  gathered  golden-rod. 

There  no  sounds  of  toil  were  straying. 

There  no  laborers  strive  and  plod  : 
But  of  merry  children  playing. 

Where  we  gathered  golden-rod. 

Woodland  scents  were  soft  distilling. 
Breathing  from  the  fragrant  sod  : 

Woodland  sounds  the  air  were  filling, 
Where  we  gathered  golden-rod. 

In  the  zephyrs  —  going  —  coming  — 
There  the  wood-weeds  sway  and  nod 

Drowsy  bees  were  softly  humming. 
Where  we  gathered  golden-rod. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And  the  autumn  seeds  were  scattering. 

Showering  from  the  bursting  pod  ; 
And  the  trembling  leaves  were  chattering 

Where  we  gathered  golden-rod. 

Through  the  trees  the  sun-rays  sifting 
Danced  like  fairies  golden-shod  ; 

Golden  clouds  above  were  drifting, 
Where  we  gathered  golden-rod. 

And  the  river,  calmly  flowing. 

Seemed  the  benison  of  God; 
Gate  of  Heaven,  —  the  sunset  glowing, 

Where  we  gathered  golden-rod  ! 


THE    MESSAGE   OF   LOVE. 
By  H.  P.  Huse. 

I  HAD  a  message  sent  to  me  once 
From  a  country  over  the  sea, 
So  sweet,  so  strange,  that  I  could  not  guess 

Who  sent  that  message  to  me. 
They  said  that  it  came  from  Christ  the  Lord 

Who  lived  in  Galilee; 
And  all  that  He  said  was,  "  Love,"  still  love ; 
And  so  was  His  message  to  me. 

"  Love  ye  one  another,"  —  thus  it  came 

From  that  Holy  Land  over  the  sea,  — 
"  So  men  shall  know  that  ye  are  mine, 

For  loving  them  ye  love  me." 
And  "  Even  as  I  love  you,  love  them," 

Was  the  message  to  you  and  to  me  ; 
Do  you  think  we  try  to  live  these  words 

That  were  spoken  in  Galilee  ? 


256 


LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 


THE    SONG    OF    SPRING. 


By  J.  W.  P. 

COME  with  garlands  fresh  and  fair, 
To  wreathe  the  gladsome  year ; 

To  sound  a  watchword  through  the 
land  : 
"  Brothers,  be  of  good  cheer  !  " 

I  come  to  chase  the  gloom  away 

Of  sterile  winter's  hand ; 
To  scatter  brightness  as  the  day 

O'er  every  vernal  land. 

I  come  to  visit  earth  again, 

With  sunshine  and  with  shower ; 

Imparting  to  the  faithful  soil 
The  secret  of  my  power. 

I  come  to  play  a  wizard's  part 
With  birds  and  beasts  and  flowers, 

To  thrill  dead  nature  into  life, 
And  wake  her  dormant  powers. 


I  come  to  pour  my  odors  forth 

Upon  the  zephyr  wind  ; 
And  paint  my  colors,  rich  and  rare, 

On  every  flower  I  find. 

I  come  to  fill  the  woods  and  groves 

With  music  ever  true, 
And  teach  the  great  cathedral  choir 

Their  anthems  to  renew. 


I  come  to  move  the  finny  tribe 

To  sportive  gambols  free, 
Making  the  bright  and  sparkling  brook 

To  dance  with  ecstasy. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  257 

I  come  to  lighten  human  woe. 

The  sufferer  to  ease, 
To  kiss  the  cheek  and  make  it  glow 

With  health  and  joy  and  peace. 

I  come  that  charter  to  renew. 

Of  ages  long  ago,  — 
'•  Seed  time  and  harvest,  cold  and  heat, 

No  more  shall  earth  forego." 

I  come  to  cheer  the  fainting  soul. 

By  my  perennial  youth. 
With  visions  of  a  spring  to  come  — 

A  resurrection  truth. 

I  come  to  teach  the  sons  of  men 

A  faithful  Father's  love, 
And  lead  them  in  true  thankfulness 

To  raise  their  hearts  above. 


A    NOBLE    RIDE. 
By  L. 

A  DOWN  the  hill  he  rode  : 
Not  for  his  noble  blood 
Shall  he  be  known  ; 
Not  for  an  ancient  name, 
Shall  his  undying  fame 
Be  proudly  sung. 

Into  the  town  he  rode  ; 
On  came  the  mighty  flood, 

As  he  rode  on. 
"  Run  to  the  hills  !  "  he  cried  : 
"  Turn  to  the  mountain  side  ! 

My  brothers,  run  !  " 
17 


258  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Through  street  and  lane  with  speed. 
He  dashed  his  frantic  steed ; 

His  cry  rang  out  : 
"  Run  to  the  hills  !  "  They  turned 
To  see  if  he  were  mad,  then  learned 

The  meaning  of  that  shout. 


The  mighty  flood  came  on  ! 
Rider  and  horse  went  down, 

Their  work  at  end. 
The  flood  swept  cruelly  by, 
A  bitter,  wailing  cry 

The  people  send. 

Too  late  they  understand 
The  rider's  brief  command  : 

"  Run  to  the  hills  !  " 
But  he  had  done  his  best. 
God  grant  him  peace  and  rest, 

Beyond  all  ills. 


VAIN    IS    THE    HELP    OF    MAN. 
By  Rica  H.  Finlay. 

OTHER  friends  may  come  and  go  ; 
Thou  shalt  fail  me  never  ; 
On  Thy  faithful,  tender  love, 
May  I  lean  forever. 

Never  shall  I  ask  in  vain  ; 

Thou  art  ever  willing 
To  fulfil  my  soul's  request, 

All  its  trouble  stilling. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  259 

Earthly  friend  can  never  meet 

All  my  heart's  deep  yearning ; 
To  a  Love  omnipotent 

It  is  ever  turning. 

As  the  flower  turns  to  the  sun, 

Source  of.  all  its  beauty ; 
So  my  spirit  ever  yields 

To  the  Lord  her  duty. 

Mortal  cannot  live  without 

Homage  to  his  Maker,  — 
Of  all  joys  and  hopes  of  men 

Giver  and  Partaker. 

Vain  it  is  to  seek  on  earth 

Lasting  peace  or  gladness  ; 
All  its  joys,  and  all  its  hopes 

Only  end  in  sadness. 

Let  our  aching,  yearning  hearts 

Raise  their  longing  higher, 
And  to  purer,  better  joys 

Let  our  souls  aspire,  — 

Seek  to  live  at  peace  with  God, 

Seek  to  lay  up  treasure 
Where  our  souls  at  last  shall  find 

Joy  that  hath  no  measure. 


THE    UNREAL   AND    THE    REAL. 
By  the  Rev.  Geo.  M.  Everhart,  D.  D. 

IN  the  hills  from  my  window  fair  Pisgah  is  seen, 
The  Queen  of  the  mountains,  in  beauty  and  sheen 
'Tis  said  she  is  robed  by  Distance,  her  maid, 
In  vesture  of  blue  'neath  the  light  and  the  shade. 


260  LYRICS   OF    THE   LIVING    CHURCH. 

Enchanting,  the  mountains  are  ever  the  same, 
With  Distance  to  robe  them,  with  fancy  aflame  ; 
But  disrobe  them  of  azure,  come  near  to  their  breast. 
And  alas  !  riven  rocks,  torn  limbs,  from  their  crest, 
Ravines  in  their  sides  and  dead  wood  from  their  trees. 
And  wild  brush,  and  rents,  and  all  else  you  may  please, 
Disclose  the  old  mountain  to  be  but  a  fraud  — 
A  monster  at  home,  an  angel  abroad. 

The  beauty  of  form  and  the  colors  of  light 
That  symbolize  life  in  its  sensuous  delight, 
Are  parts  of  the  world  —  the  butterfly  glow  — 
They  enchain  us  awhile  till  we  grasp  them  and  know 
That  skeleton  forms  of  sorrows  within, 
And  all  the  array  of  earth's  troubles  and  sin 
Make  life  as  it  is  — make  life  in  the  real, 
Unmasking  the  false,  the  true  to  reveal. 

But  there  are  mountains  beyond,  green  hills  far  away. 
Where  the  vesture  is  golden  or  azure  by  day, 
The  shadows  of  twilight  but  soften  the  scene, 
The  clouds  never  burst,  yet  the  hillsides  are  green. 
Adown  over  sands  as  white  as  the  snow, 
Leaps  onward  the  fountain  with  rhythmical  flow; 
The  velvet-like  grass  and  the  beautiful  flowrer 
Make  the  near  and  the  far  of  magnetical  power. 

And  is  it  not  true  that  in  life  may  be  found 

The  noble  and  good  in  whom  truth  may  abound  ? 

That  the  glitter  of  fraud  does  in  no  way  prevail 

To  blind  them  with  folly,  their  spirits  assail, 

But  that  near  to  such  souls  are  the  virtues  of  heaven, 

And  to  God,  as  their  All,  their  whole  life  has  been  given  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  26 r 

A    HYMN. 
By  Mary  C.  Prestox. 


H 


The  glory  and  the  song 
That  shone  and  sounded  at  Thy  birth 
Grow  dim  and  faint  throughout  the  fainting  earth 
And  heavily  falls  the  doom  of  death, 
And  all  our  hope  still  tarrieth. 

How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  ? 

The  wean*  ages  throng 

With  wail  of  birth  and  wail  of  dying ; 

The  prayers  of  ages  wait  replying ; 

Time  holds  his  throne,  the  graves  still  keep 

Their  dead,  and  still  the  living  weep. 

How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  ? 

Arise,  O  Great  and  Strong, 

And  quit  at  last  the  heavenly  places. 

Begirt  with  glory-clouds  and  angel  faces, 

Break  through  the  spaces  of  the  golden  stars, 

And  loose  eternally  our  prison  bars  ! 


LINES    TO    A    CHALICE    TWICE    RESCUED 
FROM    THE    FLAMES. 

By  the  Rev.  F.  W.  Taylor,  S.  T.  D. 

BLEST  token  of  the  dying  love  of  Christ ! 
Dear  symbol  of  His  awful  sacrifice  ! 
Pledge  of  His  conflict  in  Gethesemane  ! 
Chalice  of  blessing,  filled  from  Jesu's  side  ! 
Thy  charmed  existence  tells  the  faithful  tale, 
That  he  who  searcheth  for  the  Holv  Grail, 


262  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

And  marks  his  pathway  by  the  mystic  light 

That  gently  falls  upon  his  anxious  sight, 

Must  tread  'mid  flames  consuming,  tierce,  and  wild, 

As  pure  and  single-hearted  as  a  child  : 

Must  haste  to  midnight  risk,  when  praise  has  ceased, 

As  watchful  as  the  consecrated  priest. 

They  bear  to  fainting  men 

The  Cup  of  Life  again, 

When  fiery  wrath  and  death 

Encompass  all  beneath,  — 
They,  most  like  children,  most  like  priests  of  God, 
Who  scathless  'midst  the  world's  dread  fires  have  trod. 


IMPRISONED. 
By  L.  L.  Robinson. 

SHUT  in  ?     Ah,  no  !  we  call  not  them  shut  in 
Whose  busy  hearts  with  folded  hands  must  lie, 
Hearing  afar  the  world's  low,  muffled  din, 

Or  hushed  at  night  on  tip-toe  passing  by ; 
Ah,  no  !  such  souls  are  free  to  soar  afar, 
While  they  who  near  them  watch  oft  prisoned  are. 

Shut  in  ?     Ah,  no  !  not  they  whose  yearning  gaze 
Meets  only  mighty  hills  on  every  side, 

That  softly  veil  within  their  silvery  haze 

The  world,  whose  visage  sad  't  were  well  to  hide : 

Ah,  no  !  souls  thus  shut  in  scale  heights  unknown 

To  many  a  crown  upon  an  earthly  throne. 

Then  who  are  they  whom  we  should  call  shut  in  ? 

They  only  who  within  the  hardened  shell 
Of  selfiast  prisoned  are  ;  who,  looking  in, 

Or  out,  or  up,  see  naught  but  their  own  cell ; 
Whose  highest  aim  self's  highest  greed  to  win,  — 
These  are  the  souls  whom  we  should  call  shut  in. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS-  263 


FAITH    AND    WORKS. 
By  Brooks  O.  Baker. 

TWO  persons  met  each  Sunday  morn 
To  cross  the  river  Tay, 
Where  each  his  own  opinion  taught 

In  a  dogmatic  way. 
The  ferryman,  a  knowing  Scot, 

Each  Sunday  heard  them  say 
No  mortal  man  could  e'er  be  saved. 

Outside  a  certain  way. 
One  said  't  was  faith,  and  faith  alone, 

Could  ever  save  a  man, 
And  every  one  will  be  condemned 

Who  tries  another  plan. 
The  other  held  it  was  by  works. 

That  faith  alone  was  dead, 
That  works  would  save  the  righteous  man. 

"  Good  works  will  save,"  he  said. 
On  Sunday  morn,  when  half  way  o*er. 

The  ferry-boat  went  round, 
And  though  it  went  quite  rapidly, 

It  got  no  nearer  ground. 
"  Put  out  the  other  oar,"  one  said  : 

The  boatman  did  obey, 
But  still  no  progress  did  they  make  — 

They  went  the  other  way. 
Then  the  divines  were  sore  annoyed 

To  see  the  trick  he  played  : 
-  Work  both  together,"  they  command  ; 

The  boatman  then  obeyed. 
On  went  the  boat,  and  quickly  too, 

As  if  't  were  in  a  race, 
And  safely  brought  the  worthy  crew 

Unto  their  landing-place. 
'•  Well,  gentlemen,"  the  boatman  said, 

"  What  have  I  done  this  morn  ? "" 


264  LYRICS  OF    THE   LIVING   CHURCH. 

"  You  Ve  wasted  time  in  turning  round  !' 

They  answered  him  with  scorn. 
"Just  look!"  the  wily  Scotchman  said. 

,;  The  name  's  upon  each  oar. 
Whene'er  I  pulled  with  Faith  or  Works, 

We  got  no  nearer  shore : 
"T  was  only  when  I  worked  the  two 

The  boat  had  any  go  : 
And  you  will  find  that  Faith  and  Works 

Must  pull  together  so.'' 


THE    SISTER. 
By  the  Rev.  F.  W.  Taylor,  S.  T.  D. 

A  LIFE  of  peace,  all  calm  within  :  without, 
All  active  duty  ;  love's  pure  service  given  : 
A  faith  so  warm  no  chilling  winds  of  doubt 

Can  bar  with  clouds  her  intercourse  with  Heaven. 

A  life  of  prayer,  thus  love  breathes  forth,  to  Love 
Divine  and  boundless,  every  deep  desire  : 

And  each  rapt  soul,  enkindled  from  above. 
Mingles  her  incense  with  Heaven's  altar  fire. 

And  still  more  precious  fruit  of  Cavalry's  Tree 
Is  garnered  in  Heaven's  storehouse  by  her  King  ; 

Better  than  costliest  sacrifice,  the  free 

Obedience  Christ's  hallowed  Bride  doth  bring. 

O  Blessed  Jesu !  teach  Thy  doubting  Church 
How  rich  the  grace  Thou  hast  on  her  bestowed. 

Bid  her  faint  heart  take  courage,  and  the  torch 
Of  Love  re-lit  to  clasp,  and  praise  her  God. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  265 

THE    TOKEN. 

BY  the  Rev.  William  Francis  Dickenson,  M.D. 

[At  the  Consecration  of  Bishop  Potter  in  Grace  Church,  New  York, 
just  after  the  laying  on  of  hands,  a  ray  of  sunlight  shone  through  the 
storm  then  prevailing.] 

THE  services  began  in  tempest  loud,   . 
And  deluges  of  rain  which  swept  the  streets ; 
The  heavens  were  wrapped  in  sombre-mantled  cloud. 
Against  the  windows  dashed  the  bleak  stormbeats. 

The  organ  prelude  rolled  its  thunders  sweet 

While  robed  processions  moved  along  the  aisle,  — 

Elders,  Apostles,  who  with  peace-shod  feet 
Had  gathered  here  in  greeting  for  awhile 

Of  him,  elect  Apostle,  now  so  soon 

To  stand  with  Christ's  commission  given, 

In  all  the  fulness  of  his  life's  rich  noon. 

"  A  legate  of  the  skies  "  —  an  officer  of  Heaven. 

There  were  Christ's  ministers  from  far  and  wide : 
Among  the  wisest,  noblest,  and  the  best, 

From  the  far  East,  from  Rocky  Mountains'  side  — 
The  fair  Southland,  the  prairies  of  the  West. 

The  solemn  services  were  finished  now, 
Which  led  up  to  the  final,  crowning  act  — 

"  The  laying  on  of  hands."     Then  came  the  vow  : 
"  A  shepherd  of  the  flock,  the  faith  intact, 

"  I  promise  faithfully  to  be  —  to  keep ; 

In  tenderness  and  love  to  wield  the  rod, 
Remembering  all  Christ's  poor,  weak,  straying  sheep  ; 

Not  done  alone,  but  with  the  help  of  God." 


266  LYRICS  OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

The  mitred  leaders,  as  the  questions  ceased, 
In  solemn  readiness  there  waiting  stood, 

And  spake  the  words  by  which  the  kneeling  priest 
Should  rise  a  bishop  in  the  Church  of  God. 

••  We  lay  our  hands  in  delegated  power 
Upon  thy  head.     Now  in  the  saintly  line 

Henceforth  and  ever  from  this  solemn  hour, 
A  bishop's  oversight  and  work  are  thine. 

"  Nor  let  this  sacred  charge  from  thee  depart ; 

O  Watchman.  Leader,  faithful  at  thy  post ! 
Ever  God's  gift  keep  glowing  in  thy  heart, 

And  for  this  work,  '  Receive  the  Holy  Ghost." '' 

The  words  were  ended,  when,  behold,  a  wave 
Of  sunlight  'mid  the  storm  came  floating  down 

Through  the  rich  panes,  and  lit  the  hallowed  nave, 
As  if  in  storm  and  shine  were  mingled  cross  and  crown. 

Mark  this  glad  token,  herald  of  the  cross  ! 

Shine  forth  in  splendor  through  life's  gloom  and  sin  ! 
Amid  its  cloud  and  storm,  its  pain  and  loss, 

Thou  mitred  Leader,  stand,  in  heaven's  own  sheen  ! 


THE    SISTER'S    VOW. 

LINES    ADDRESSED    TO    A    MOTHER    SUPERIOR. 

By  A. 

DEAR,  gentle  eyes  in  which  I  see 
A  reflex  of  the  Love  divine  ! 
Dear,  steadfast  hand  that  holdest  me  ! 
And  dear,  calm  heart  that  strenethenest  mine  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  267 

O  Mother  !  't  is  an  easy  task 
To  thee  my  threefold  vow  to  make : 
Here  let  me  kneel,  and.  fervent,  ask 
To  keep  it  for  a  Dearers  sake. 

Weary  at  last  of  wandering, 

Now  will  I  rest,  and  count  it  sweet 

My  hands,  and  head,  and  heart  to  bring, 

And  lay  them  at  the  Master's  Feet. 

O  Mother  !  take  forevermore 
This  wayward  will  that  would  not  break, 
This  passionate  love  that  would  not  soar. 
And  guide,  and  raise,  for  Jesu's  sake  ! 


STILL    RING    THE    BELLS. 
By  H.  C.  McKeever. 

IN  pride  of  human  reason, 
Men  scale  the  lofty  sky. 
And  with  a  sacrilegious  hand 

The  God  of  heaven  defy ; 
Would  dig,  and  analyze,  and  sift 

Each  little  grain  of  dust, 
Till  baffled,  'gainst  an  iron  wall 
Of  darkness,  bow  they  must. 
And  yet  the  spires  point  up  to  heaven, 
And  still  the  bells  ring  grandly  on. 

Out  of  the  caverns  cold  and  drear 
Crowds  of  dark  spirits  creep, 

Quenching  the  star  of  Christian  hope 
In  death's  eternal  sleep, 


268  LYRICS   OP    THE   LIVING   CHURCH. 

Casting  a  pall  of  darkest  gloom 

O'er  man's  mysterious  fate, 
Beating  against  the  iron  bars 
With  frantic  blows  of  hate. 
And  yet  the  spires  point  up  to  heaven. 
And  still  the  bells  ring  grandly  on. 

Spreading  the  fogs  of  unbelief 

O'er  weak  and  trembling  hearts, 
Dimming  the  starry  light  of  truth, 

Piercing  with  cruel  darts 
The  humble  souls  that  look  to  heaven 

For  light,  and  joy.  and  peace. 
Tearing  away  the  feeble  hope 
That  longs  for  sweet  release. 
And  yet  the  spires  point  up  to  heaven. 
And  still  the  bells  ring  grandly  on. 

What  will  they  do  with  Jesus  Christ, 

Who  with  majestic  tread 
Ts  walking  through  the  centuries. 

Heaven  shining  overhead? 
••  Lo  !  I  am  with  you  to  the  end." 

Has  even-  cavil  still'd.  — 
The  power  of  every  precious  word 

Still  day  by  day  fulfilled. 
And  yet  the  spires  point  up  to  heaven. 
And  still  the  bells  ring  grandly  on. 

For  eighteen  hundred  rolling  years, 

Through  seas  of  blood  and  strife. 
While  earthly  kingdoms  wax  and  wane, 

The  Lord  of  endless  life 
Is  marching  on  to  take  His  throne, 

To  conquer  all  his  foes  : 
To  crown  his  saints  with  victory. 

To  heal  His  people's  woes. 
And  yet  the  spires  point  up  to  heaven. 
And  still  the  Dells  ring  grandly  on. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  269 

Up  from  the  depth  of  Christian  hearts 

There  comes  the  voice  of  faith  ; 
Heaven-sent,  heaven-kept,  it  answers  back, 

For  "thus  my  Master  saith." 
Doubters  may  fling  their  scornful  sneers. 

We  feel  that  Christ  is  near  ; 
Down  in  the  castle  of  the  heart, 

We  knoiv  that  He  is  here. 
And  yet  the  spires  point  up  to  heaven, 
And  still  the  bells  ring  grandly  on. 

Here,  in  the  grand  cathedral  choir. 

Here,  in  the  lowly  fane, 
Where  God's  dear  children  worship  Him 

In  love's  most  raptured  strain  : 
Here,  in  the  countless  homes  of  rest. 

For  weary  ones  of  earth,  — 
For  all  the  sheltering  arms  of  love 

From  Him  must  date  their  birth. 
And  yet  the  spires  point  up  to  heaven. 
And  still  the  bells  ring  grandly  on. 

Here,  in  the  witnesses  for  Him.  — 

The  homes  for  lame  and  blind, 
The  orphan  and  the  Magdalen, 

All  sorts  of  humankind  ; 
In  feeble  copies  of  our  Lord, 
In  voices  sweet  and  clear, 
His  people  witness  to  the  truth 
That  Jesus  Christ  is  here. 
And  yet  the  spires  point  up  to  heaven. 
And  still  the  bells  ring  grandly  on. 

Xo  wonder  that  the  hosts  of  hell 

Are  rallying  to  the  fight ; 
When  through  the  twilight  of  the  past, 

Beyond  the  dreary  night, 
We  see  the  rosy  dawn  of  day 

Above  the  eastern  seas,  — 


270  LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 

Light  from  the  Orient !     Life  from  death  ! 

Come  wafted  on  the  breeze. 
And  yet  the  spires  point  up  to  heaven, 
And  still  the  bells  ring  grandly  on. 

You  cannot  still  these  Gospel  bells, 

Nor  tear  the  temple  down ; 
You  cannot  crush  these  lofty  spires, 

Nor  trample  Jesus'  crown. 
For  on,  and  on,  the  bells  will  ring, 

Till  nations  from  afar 
Shall  echo  back  the  blessed  chimes 
That  hail  the  "  Morning  Star."' 
And  yet  the  spires  point  up  to  heaven, 
And  still  the  bells  ring  grandly  on. 

The  bells  of  the  Nativity 

Proclaim  that  He  is  here : 
The  tables  spread  with  Jesus"  love 

Our  waiting  spirits  cheer,  — 
Waiting  throughout  the  centuries 

For  Christ  to  claim  His  own, 
When  in  His  glorious  majesty, 

He  takes  His  righteous  throne. 
And  yet  the  spires  point  up  to  heaven, 
And  still  the  bells  ring  grandly  on. 


MY    CABIN. 
By  Elsie  White  Gaynor. 

THE  winter's  wind  is  blowing  chill, 
It  seeks  an  entrance  at  door  and  sill, 
But  my  well-built  cabin 
And  hearth  aglow 
Are  sure  defence  from  anv  foe. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  271 

The  world,  they  say,  is  full  of  strife. 

Yet  mine  is  a  quiet  and  peaceful  life, 

For  my  well-built  cabin 

And  hearth  aglow 

Are  faithfullest  of  friends,  I  trow. 


The  world  is  full  of  anxious  care 

For  goods  and  gold  I  do  not  share, 

For  my  well-built  cabin 

And  hearth  aglow 

Are  all  I  need  and  all  I  know. 

And  the  world  is  full  of  bitter  loss, 

Where  men  count  store  their  worthless  dross, 

But  my  well-built  cabin 

And  hearth  aglow 

A  portion  are  that  brings  no  woe. 

Could  the  world  but  taste  of  a  humbler  life, 

Forget  its  pomp  and  ambitious  strife, 

My  well-built  cabin 

And  hearth  aglow 

And  their  quiet,  peace,  and  comfort  know  ! 

But  the  world  will  scoff  at  my  simple  pride, 

My  humbler  pleasures  it  will  deride ; 

And  my  well-built  cabin 

And  hearth  aglow 

And  the  joys  they  bring  it  will  never  know, 


SUNSET   THOUGHTS. 
By  Josephine  Smith  Wood. 

THE  western  glow  of  amber  bright, 
Floods  all  the  land  with  golden  light 
A  fleecy  cloud,  just  tinged  with  red, 
Like  burnished  fret-work  hangs  o'erhead. 

The  gorgeous  sky  in  sunset  drest 
Is  mirrored  on  the  calm  sea's  breast ; 
A  far-off  gleaming  sail  doth  lend 
Its  beauty  to  the  day's  sweet  end. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  273 

Naught  now  is  heard  save  muffled  roar 
Of  restless  wave-beat  on  the  shore  ; 
And  musing  thoughts  within  me  rise, 
That  fill  with  tears  my  grateful  eyes. 

The  heavenly  country  seems  to  me 
To  lie  beyond  that  sunlit  sea ; 
These  waters,  stilled  at  His  command, 
Are  "  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand." 

Thy  way,  O  Lord,  permits  no  flaw. 
The  best  comes  last — such  is  Thy  law. 
The  fairest  sky  lies  in  the  west : 
'T  is  at  the  close  of  day  we  rest. 

The  dying  year  doth  earth  enfold, 
With  scarlet  robe  and  cloth  of  gold  : 
And  lengthened  shadows  softest  seem, 
When  twilight  silvers  all  the  stream. 

So  time  the  sharp  edge  roundeth  o'er, 
Which  hurt  us  once  and  wounded  sore ; 
Its  mellow  light  doth  faults  obscure  — 
Were  it  not  so,  who  could  endure  ! 

Like  this  fair  day  I  find  complete, 
I  know  life's  close  shall  be  as  sweet : 
For  light  will  be  its  eventide, 
With  heavenly  portals  opening  wide. 

And  when  for  me  life's  day  is  past. 
May  my  expectant  soul,  at  last, 
Bathe  in  the  golden  light,  outpoured 
From  that  fair  city  of  our  Lord. 

The  sunset  fades,  but  morn  comes  fair ; 
The  dead  year  doth  a  Spring  prepare  ; 
And  so  my  soul,  from  its  dead  clay, 
Shall  waken,  satisfied,  some  day. 
18 


274 


LYRICS   OF    THE  LIVING   CHURCH. 


PSALM   XXIII. 
By  the  Rev.  John  Milton  Peck. 

THE  Lord,  my  God,  in  pastures  green, 
In  fertile  fields  He  placeth  me ; 
My  Shepherd  King,  by  brooklet  sheen, 
Without  a  lack,  He  feedeth  me. 

And  when  my  soul  hath  gone  astray, 
Then  to  the  right  He  turneth  me ; 

And  ever  in  the  righteous  way, 

Oh,  bless  His  Name  !  He  leadeth  me. 

Yea,  e'en  when  death's  dark  shadows  come, 
I  '11  know  no  fear  —  He  holdeth  me  ; 

His  presence  then  shall  bear  me  home, 
His  rod  and  staff  shall  comfort  me. 


And  with  a  ready  table  spread, 
Against  my  foes  He  shieldeth  me  ; 

With  holy  oil  upon  my  head, 
And  cup  of  joy,  He  filleth  me. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


275 


Goodness  and  mercy  all  my  days, 
From  my  dear  Lord,  shall  follow  me  ; 

And  in  His  house,  with  ceaseless  praise, 
I  '11  dwell,  —  my  God,  He  knoweth  me* 


flTTLE  MaRJORIE'S  LOVE  STORY. 

By  Marguerite  Bouvet,  Author  of  "Sweet 
William."  Fully  illustrated  by  Helen  Maitland  Arm- 
strong.   SmalUto,  Sl.25. 

Miss  Bouvet's  popularity  as  a  writer  for  the  young  was 
at  once  established  on  the  publication  of  her  first  and  very 
successful  book,  "  Sweet  William."  Her 
new  book,  "Little  Marjorie's  Love  Story," 
cannot  fail  to  be  equally  popular.  The  un- 
selfish love  of  plain,  timid  Little  Marjorie 
for  her  beautiful,  gifted,  imperious  bro- 
ther, and  his  denial  of  her  when  at  the 
zenith  of  his  career,  at  a  time  when  he 
was  carrying  peace  and  comfort  to  the 
souls  of  hundreds  by  the  angel-like  sweet- 
ness of  his  voice,  is  told  with  that  charm 
which  Miss  Bouvet  possesses  in  such  a 
singular  degree.  The  beauty  and  pathos 
of  the  story  are  touching,  and  the  delicate 
way  in  which  the  characteristics  of  the 
one  child  are  contrasted  with  those  of 
the  other  is  as  effective  as  the  lights  and 
shadows  of  a  picture.  Pride  and  selfish- 
ness never  seemed  more  contemptible 
than  in  the  person  of  the  handsome 
Gerald,  nor  unselfish  love  and  self-sacrificing  sisterly  devotion 
more  beautiful  than  in  that  of  sweet  little  Marjorie.  The 
illustrator,  Miss  Armstrong,  has  told  the  story  in  picture  as 
effectively  as  the  author  has  in  words. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

*A.  C.  McCLURG  AND  CO.,  Publishers, 

Cor.  Wabash  Ave.  and  Madison  St.,  Chicago. 


L 


Sweet  William. 


By  Marguerite  Bouvet.    With  Illustrations 
Helen    and    Margaret    /^^    Armstrong. 
C\t    Small  quarto,  209  pages,  ^p>       ^^  $1.50. 


This  very  at- 
tractive little  vol- 
ume is  unlike  any 
other  book  we  can 
think  of.  It  takes 
us  back  to  mediae- 
val times,  and  in- 
troduces us  to  the 
lords  and  ladies 
who  then  inhab- 
ited the  splendid 
castle  that  still 
looks  down  from 
the  heights  of  Mount  St.  Michael,  on  the  coast  of  Normandy. 
It  tells  the  pathetic  story  (with  a  happy  ending)  of  a  little  boy, 
who  had  he  lived  to-day  would  have  been  a  genuine  Little  Lord 
Fauntleroy,  and  introduces  us  also  to  a  Little  Lady  Fauntleroy, 
with  whom  we  cannot  help  falling  in  love.  The  illustrations 
are  singularly  beautiful  and  appropriate,  and  make  it  altogether 
one  of  the  most  attractive  juvenile  books  of  recent  years. 


For  sale  by  booksellers  generally,  or  will  be  sent,  post-paid,  on 
receipt  of  the  price,  by 

.A.  C.  McCLURG  AND  CO.,  Publishers. 

CHICAGO. 


A  Song  of  Life. 

By  Margaret  Warner  Morley.  With  profuse 
Illustrations  by  the  Author  and  by  Robert 
Forsyth.      Price,  $1.25. 


£P*J 


The  plan  and  purpose  of  this  work  are  at  once  very  unusual 
and  admirable.  A  special  student  of  biology  and  embryology 
and  a  charming  writer,  the  author  also  possesses  the  rare  com- 
bination of  scientific,  literary,  and  artistic  attainments  which 
render  such  a  work  posssible. 

It  unfolds  the  mystery  of  plant  and  animal  existence  with 
a  charm  of  manner  and  delicacy  of  treatment  that  delight 
while  they  instruct.  Mothers  who  read  it  will  quickly  see  its 
value  and  will  gladly  put  it  into  the  hands  of  their  sons  and 
daughters,  to  whom  its  beautiful  and  significant  "  Song  of 
Life  "  will  hardly  be  sung  in  vain. 


For  sale  by  booksellers  generally,  or  will  be  sent,  post-paid,  on 
receipt  of  the  price,  by 

zA.  C.  McCLURG  AND  CO.,  Publishers, 

CHICAGO 


The  Story  of  Tonty. 

An  Historical  Romance.  By  Mary  Hartwell 
Catherwood,  author  of  "The  Romance  of 
Dollard,"  "  The  Lady  of  Fort  St.  John,"  etc. 
Profusely  Illustrated  from  original  drawings  by 
Mr.  Enoch  Ward.     12mo,  224  pages,  $1.25. 


"The  Story  of  Tonty,"  in  which  Mrs.  Catherwood's  genius 
for  historical  romance  reaches  perhaps  its  highest  manifestation, 
is  a  Western  story,  beginning  at  Montreal,  tarrying  at  Fort 
Frontenac,  and  ending  at  the  old  fort  at  Starved  Rock,  on  the 
Illinois  river.  It  weaves  the  adventures  of  the  two  great  ex- 
plorers, the  intrepid  La  Salle  and  his  faithful  lieutenant,  Tonty, 
into  a  tale  as  thrilling  and  romantic  as  the  descriptive  portions 
are  brilliant  and  vivid.  It  is  superbly  illustrated  with  twenty- 
three  masterly  drawings  by  Mr.  Enoch  Ward. 


For  sale  by  booksellers  generally,  or  will  be  sent,  post-paid,  on 
receipt  of  the  price,  by 

c/f.  C.  McCLURG  AND  CO.,  Publishers, 

CHICAGO. 


